The Prince and the Librarian
by Sazziel
Summary: The Library of Minas Tirith is a dusty, disorganised mess, and it is the backdrop for the whimsical romance between the Heir to the Throne and the new Librarian as, together, they restore it to it's former glory, and unearth the hidden secrets of kings…
1. Proloque

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful.

Prologue

The first time they meet, it's because it's a rainy day, and Eleniel is sitting at her desk staring out at the miserably grey view of the city when a voice says, "Erm – excuse me, my lady; are you the new librarian?"

She jumps and turns, almost upsetting her untidy pile of accounts of the Great Plague, to find a pair of solemn grey eyes gazing down at her from the face of the Prince of Gondor. She leaps from her chair. "You're the Prince!"

The Heir blinks down at her. "I am, and you are…?"

"Eleniel. Sire. New librarian. My father handed on the job, as it were, that is, only one son and he's in the army, and I like books so I was the obvious choice." Eleniel stops talking and swallows hard. "Can I help you, your highness?"

A sudden disarming smile lights up the somewhat forbidding features of Prince Eldarion. "Ah – I believe you can. I rather think that this library contains a large collection of documents from Harad?"

Eleniel glances round. From her desk, she can see the whole of the dusty, disorganised library; huge, grimy windows let what weak light there is and the teetering shelves stretch to the vaulted ceiling. Eleniel thinks of her father, too disabled to do anything but dust a few shelves occasionally, and sighs. "Certainly, my lord. If they are anywhere then they are in here."

Eldarion is also eyeing the vast room with some doubt written on his handsome features. "Really?"

"Oh yes, sire; but my father wasn't able to do much in the way of cataloguing or, or cleaning, or anything really – he was in the war, and until I get it sorted out –" which will take up the better part of the rest of my life, she adds silently – "I'm afraid that finding things is rather difficult."

The Prince frowns. "Do you have no assistants?"

"No, your highness," says Eleniel blandly.

"And how long have you held this post?"

"The best part of a week now, sire, although I have a fairly good idea of where some things are; I've been in and out of here all my life." Eleniel watches him carefully. She doesn't think he looks the kind of man to deprive people of their jobs out-of-hand, but she dreads having some obsequious palace clerk come in and start being officious.

Eldarion narrows his eyes. "And I suppose that a horde of cleaners would disrupt you considerably?"

"Yes, sire." And then, because she truly does want to be helpful, she adds, "If you give me a few months, your highness, I'll have that section in some sort of order for you."

"And how will you accomplish that?" he asks her.

"Er, well, by having to large piles of paper; one for scrolls on the Haradrim, the other for – anything else."

"You cannot trawl through the whole library by yourself! It would take years!"

"Begging your pardon, sire, but it needs to be done." She shrugs. "And then I'll try and catalogue what I can, although obviously not the gallery, the stairs are gone." They both automatically glance up at the high balcony, where cobwebs festoon the shelves and paper covers the floor.

The Prince starts to lean against a nearby shelf, but stops himself just in time. "A thankless task." He regards her with that narrow stare again, and seems to reach a decision. "I'll send down people to help you. I had no idea that the library was in this state, and I'm sure the king did not know." This is most likely true: the library of the Palace is rumoured to be a favoured haunt of King Elessar, and it is no wonder that he has never visited the City library, which in addition to being in a state of disrepair is largely acknowledged to have ceased to function.

Eleniel panics quietly. She can think of nothing worse than having a horde of palace servants kicking up the dust. "My lord, I'd rather – I mean, please don't, I can sort it out if you'll just give me a few months! The system is so complicated, and there are all sorts of scrolls down here, half of them in languages that no one speaks any more – some of them could be so important!"

Eldarion frowns. "We have a shortage of men with knowledge of this kind of – of…"

"Thing," said Eleniel helpfully.

"Indeed," says the Heir. "There are so few with the language skills, let alone the kind of patience needed, who are not already employed at court." He flashes her a sudden smile again. "I shall find someone. No, my lady, I insist," he adds as Eleniel starts to protest, and she subsides. When the Prince of Gondor insists, the unspoken rule is that he is obeyed.

"Thankyou, my lord," she says quietly, dropping an awkward curtsey.

"It is a pleasure." Eldarion executes a perfect bow, his dark hair falling forward, then turns on his heel and walks toward the stairs, the picture of Gondorian upper-class elegance in his long surcoat of dark velvet. Eleniel stands quite still as the sound of his footsteps fades, and the dust-motes gleam in the pale sunlight that breaks through the rain.

"He won't be back," she says aloud to the vast, forgotten room, and reaches for the crumbling words of long-dead kings as the dust settles once more.


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful – thanks to everyone who reviewed last time, you are all amazing people and it gives me warm fuzzy feelings D

Chapter One

When Eleniel next sees Prince Eldarion Telcontar, it is a fine, though cold, winter morning. Eleniel has wrapped up warm against the chill – there are no fires in the Library – and is about to start deciphering the last scribblings of Lord Dardin, Eighth Keeper of the Royal Tapestries, when she hears approaching footsteps and looks up, hand poised over the scroll.

The Prince is not dressed in black velvet today, but rather in sensible, close-woven tunic and leggings, with worn leather boots; he smiles at her as he picks his way across the floor.

"My lord," says Eleniel in some surprise, standing up. "I didn't think you'd – that is, I – "

"I keep my word," Eldarion informs her as he reaches the old wooden desk. "To the best of my ability, at any rate." He folds his arms and smiles at her, a little shyly. "I – was unable to find anyone with sufficient skills to aid you, however, and I do apologise. They all seem to think that their time would be much better spent at court, and I think you would not wish for unwilling or reluctant helpers?"

Eleniel ducks her head. "No, my lord." Some part of her has been hoping that he might have found some eccentric scholar who could have heaved some of the heavier shelves around, but she is a little relieved not to have her sanctuary invaded by super-efficient cleaners. "I'm sure you did your best."

"Hm." The Prince quirks an eyebrow, and then laughs at the look of relief on her face. " There is only one person, it would appear, who has both time and inclination to assist you, and that is myself."

Eleniel laughs as well, as much at the idea of the elegant prince dusting cobwebs from furniture and fishing around underneath shelves for scraps of paper as anything.

"Will you let me?"

Eleniel stares at him. "Are you serious, your highness?"

"Perfectly, I assure you."

"You – but – with all respect, sir, you're the heir to the throne! You can't go cleaning out City buildings!"

Eldarion's brows snap together. "It will be my city, one day. I have a good knowledge of ancient languages, and I am quite capable of wielding a broom…"

"No brooms," mutters Eleniel. "Got to dust first."

"…and moreover, I can move heavy furniture for you." The Prince stares at her sternly. "Is there any objection, other than my rank?"

"Well, no," says Eleniel, flustered, "And I'm honoured, but – but surely you're busy, too busy to…"

He sighs. "May I sit?" he asks, and at her nod drops into the spindly chair on the other side of her desk. He leans forward as she sits also, cautiously. "I am not at all busy."

"But surely there's affairs of state and – and things." Eleniel has a very vague notion of politics, and what the duties of a prince entail, but she is fairly sure that it includes things like arguing with foreigners and negotiating.

"Yes. Up until last month, there were plenty of things to occupy my time." Eldarion absently runs one hand through his hair. "I have been away from the city for the past two years, as you may be aware. I was with the army, in Arnor." He looks wistful. "I was of some use. But now – now I have been recalled, and while I dearly love Minas Tirith, I miss having a – a purpose, you might say. The law courts are interesting, but I am not needed there; my sisters are still in Ithilien, and my friends are in Arnor. This place was once beautiful, and so much learning – it should not go to waste."

Eleniel tucks her hair behind her ears. She keeps it unfashionably short, because it is heavy and hot in the summer, but now she wishes that she had some covering for her lower neck; she pulls her shawl closer. "Can you read Adunaic, sire?"

"Yes. And I'm fluent in Sindarin, Quenyan and Rohirric, with a spattering of Valinorean – though anyone writing in that tongue is a fool, in my opinion – and passable Khandian. My Haradric is a little rusty. I can read most scripts. As for the dusting…"

"I'll teach you," says Eleniel with a smile. "You're hired, my lord, although I cannot afford much in the way of wages." She is delighted to see an answering grin on his face.

"Your enchanting company will be all the payment I require," he says, grey eyes twinkling. Eleniel, flustered once more, stands up; he stands too, an expectant look on his face.

"Right," says Eleniel firmly. "We need a starting point. I think that if we start with this floor – we really don't have a lot of choice, to be honest – and maybe catalogue as we go, that will be easiest…"

"Shall we start at the far end?"

Eleniel steps round her desk, treading carefully so that she doesn't stand on anything, and moves out into the centre of the foyer. Before her, shelves march down to the far wall, which is dominated by a colossal round window; it is so dirty that virtually no light comes through it. Paper litters the floor, and one stack of shelves has fallen over so that it rests on its neighbour. "Yes, I think so. Wait, let me find something to write with…" She darts back again and rummages in one of the drawers, trying not to let her excitement show, and passes parchment, ink and pens to the Heir.

He points to a huge, overstuffed book, which lies on the floor behind her. "Is that the – the catalogue?"

"Ah. Yes." Eleniel picks it up carefully, coughing as clouds of dust arise. The ancient parchment crackles ominously, and she cradles it gingerly against her chest. "Shall we, your highness?"

Eldarion gestures gracefully, allowing her to precede him. Eleniel sneaks a glance at him as she passes, and wonders how he manages to look every bit as royal as he had the day before, even though he is clad in plain clothes and his long hair is tied back with a piece of string. She's not entirely comfortable with the idea of the Prince of Gondor engaging in menial tasks as yet; although Eleniel has led an extremely secluded life, preferring books to people and avoiding most of her peers like the plague, she is perfectly aware that Prince Eldarion is one of the most powerful and sought-after men in the kingdom, not to mention the fact that one day he will inherit the throne. _There will be no – expectations,_ she tells herself firmly, hefting the book in her arms. _None at all. Yes, you are being helped by a prince, but that prince is sure to lose interest as soon as he realises that there's nothing down here but dust, mice and books._

The prince in question is looking around with some curiosity as they proceed down the main aisle. Dark corridors open off to either side of them; what many people do not realise is that the library is a virtual warren, and that it extends far under the ground. Eleniel knows for a fact that her great-grandfather used the left wing to store firewood, but that is as far as her knowledge goes, and she is unwilling to venture down the dark corridors without some kind of light.

"Well," says Eldarion, and Eleniel realises that they have reached the window; she turns around to gaze up at the teetering stacks. "Where shall we start?"

Nearly two hours later, they have some kind of rhythm going, and have cleared almost half of one of the stacks. Eldarion perches on the rickety old ladder that has been eventually located propping up the remainder of the stairs to the gallery; being the taller, he can just about reach the top of the shelves. Eleniel sits cross-legged on the cold stone floor, and writes down the names of the scrolls and the books as he reads them out; they have agreed after some discussion that this is not - as indicated by the library plan from two centuries ago – the section on Great Military Manoeuvres, but is in fact the section on Khandian etiquette.

"An account by the twelfth steward of Gondor, upon the occasion of his first meeting with the Ambassador," calls down the Prince. "Mainly complete, fairly good condition." He leans precariously downward, the ladder creaking ominously, and carefully deposits the volume on the growing pile on the floor. "Pages a bit loose. And that's the end of that row."

Eleniel neatly ticks off the title in the ancient directory, and then writes it below the long column of others on the fresh parchment in front of her. "At least nothing seems to be missing – there are a lot of things that aren't in the records, though." She rubs her nose absentmindedly, forgetting that she has ink smeared across her fingers.

Eldarion sits gingerly on the top rung. "Would it be time to stop for lunch yet, my lady, or do you wish to keep working?" His voice is carefully controlled, but his expression reads _before I expire from extreme hunger_. Eleniel bite her lips together to keep from laughing.

"I believe it could be," she agrees, and stands up, wincing as stiff muscles protest. Eldarion descends from his lofty perch, and Eleniel lets out a breath that she hasn't realised she has been holding; it would be a fine state of affairs were the heir to the kingdom to injure himself in her library.

The Prince offers to buy lunch, and departs to the outside world while Eleniel takes the opportunity to wash the ink from her hands and face. By the time he returns, she has located another armchair; they eat hot pies in companionable silence until Eldarion, lounging in his chair with effortless grace, says, "So, my lady librarian, what secrets does this place hold? Buried treasure? Ghosts?"

Eleniel sniffs. "Nothing of the kind, my lord. A few secret passages, maybe, and it is rumoured that somewhere is hidden the last writings of Elendil…"

"Really?" The Prince sits up. "What else? Where do the passages lead to?"

"I couldn't possibly say, my lord. I know of the location of two; one has caved in, but I think the other leads to the Palace."

Eldarion blinks. "Impossible."

Eleniel says with a shrug, "I've never followed it, but my father did once; he claimed that it links to the Palace Library." Then, because he looks worried, "I am the only one alive now who knows of it, sire. My father never told a soul."

"Your father is…"

"Dead? These two months, sire."

Eldarion frowns. "But you have a mother?"

Eleniel hugs her knees to her chest. "Not since I was six, your highness. It's just me and the cat – my brother is away with the armies."

"But surely it can't be safe for you – a young woman, living all alone!" says Eldarion, shocked. Eleniel bursts out laughing.

"The neighbours keep an eye on the house while I'm gone, and the cat is an excellent guard. I manage." To keep him from returning to the subject, she jumps to her feet. "Shall we try and finish that stack today, your highness?"

"A very good idea," replies Eldarion, and lets her lead the way.

It is nearly dark when Eleniel shows the Prince the passage to the Palace. It is rather unoriginally hidden behind an old statue, but Eldarion is delighted, confessing to a childhood love for secret passages with a boyish gleam in his eyes.

"I found all the ways in and out of the Palace apart from this one, it would seem," he says, blowing on the torch he holds to further ignite it. "Did you know that there is one leading from Lord Imrahil's town house to the kitchens? He used to say that it was the most useful thing he owned." He peers up the dark passageway. "At least this way should mean that I can re-enter the Palace without being seen, which believe me, is a blessing." He looks round at her with a smile. "I shall see you again tomorrow, my lady."

She shakes her head. "Eleniel, please. And thank you, sire. I – well. Thank you."

Something passes over his face, but it is gone before she can name it. "I believe it is I who must thank you, Eleniel." He grabs her hand and kisses it, and then he's gone, the torchlight disappearing due to the upward slant of the tunnel.

Eleniel stands there for a moment, then turns and makes her way back through the darkening gloom, up into the busy, everyday world of the city.

Review? D


	3. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Thanks to everyone who's already reviewed, you are the cause of much insane grinning ;D

Chapter Two

Two days later, Eleniel and Eldarion have finished clearing two sections, and are busy replacing the books on their shelves, having been numbered and recorded in Eleniel's ever-growing catalogue. The shelves have been dusted, and already a difference can be seen as they begin to fill; looking around her, Eleniel can almost believe that they might one day succeed in restoring the whole place. At present, she is crouched on the floor, neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle to look under the stacks; it comes as something of a relief that there is nothing underneath, although she makes a mental note to check next time before filling the shelves.

"There's nothing down there that I can see," she says, standing carefully.

"Maybe I should have a look on the top," suggests Eldarion's voice, slightly muffled, from the other side. There is a scrabbling noise, the shelves wobble slightly and Eleniel moves back hastily; it is sturdy furniture, however, and the Prince of Gondor appears three feet above her head, looking rather surprised. He grins down at her, and Eleniel cannot help but grin back.

"I'd like to meet the person who took it into their head to leave books up there," she says, stepping back to keep him in view. "Can you see the whole lib – please, if you value my sanity, don't sta – oh, _must_ you, your highness?" this last somewhat despairingly; Eleniel has learnt over the past few days that Eldarion Telcontar can have a distressingly low regard for his own safety.

"Sweet Elbereth," says Eldarion, "this place is vast. I can see the walls, though," he adds in what is obviously an attempt to be optimistic.

"Couldn't you sort of – kneel down and see the walls?"

The Prince looks down at her, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Lady Librarian, are you implying that my sense of balance is not reliable?"

"My lord Prince, I have not the faintest doubt that your stance is firm as the very rock of the Ered Nimrais themselves," sighs Eleniel, "and I fear that the floor is as hard."

Eldarion laughs, and obligingly kneels. "There. I shall not fall – it is a strange shape for a building, isn't it?"

Eleniel knows what he means. Instead of fitting the regular shapes of the buildings around it, the library spreads along the outer face of the Sixth Circle, underneath the posh and gleaming houses to either side of it. The narrow entrance forces visitors to walk down a steep flight of steps before they reach the foyer with it's great vaulted roof; from outside the city, it appears to cling to the walls, and the wings snake along to either side of it. "Very strange," she agrees, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders.

Eldarion is gazing up, now, at the roof itself, all intricate carving and sweeping lines of stone. Eleniel takes the opportunity to smile at the smudge of dirt adorning his left cheek. He really is very strange, for a prince; Eleniel has been brought up under the firm belief that Royalty are not subject to the same things as ordinary people, but has been forced to drastically change her opinion after hearing Eldarion's very inventive language the day before, when the only two copies in existence of 'The Illustrated Guide to the Heraldic Symbols of the Third Age' fell on his unprotected head.

The prince in question disappears from view once more, and there is a rattle as he descends the ladder. "I'm not sure who built the library," he says, back once more on solid ground. "Do you know?"

Eleniel wrinkles her nose. "Well, according to Father, my family did. He used to say that somewhere in here are the deeds to this whole street, as well as land somewhere in Dol Amroth. Personally, I think it highly unlikely."

"Hm." Eldarion looks thoughtful. "I think that rent in these parts is paid to Lord Stelbin."

"It would be," says Eleniel sourly. Stelbin is her landlord, too, and the rent rises whenever he comes to the City. "I must go and find some more ink, my lord. Where shall we do next?"

"Maybe down the end?" suggests the Prince, gesturing to his right. "We may even find your mysterious deeds!"

"Unlikely, my lord," says Eleniel under her breath as she hurries back to her desk. She drops down on the floor to rummage through her aging bag for ink, reflecting as she does so that before long she will have to buy some more, not to mention more parchment; as she stands again, ink in hand, Eldarion shouts something incoherent.

"Sorry, my lord?" she calls. In answer, there is a resounding crash, which echoes around the library.

"Oh, ye Valar," breathes Eleniel, and sprints toward the sound, images of collapsed shelves and unconscious princes whirling through her mind. She skids around the corner and is momentarily blinded by the sun, weak as it is; she runs forward anyway, and gasps in terror when arms grab her about the waist.

"Stop, Eleniel!" says Eldarion's voice close to her ear. She blinks so that her vision clears, and looks down; a gaping hole in the floor is inches away from her feet.

"Ah," she says. "Erm – there's a hole in the floor."

"There is indeed," agrees Eldarion, releasing her. Eleniel steps back, her cheeks burning. "It would appear that if one presses a certain stone in the wall, it opens."

"I wonder where it goes?" Eleniel puts down the ink-bottle carefully and crouches downto peer into the hole; she can see a few steps winding their way down into the darkness, but nothing beyond that. She looks up at Eldarion, and they reach an unspoken agreement.

"Lucky that there are torches," says Eldarion, pointing, and Eleniel accepts the aged wood; he strikes a light, after rummaging in pockets for his tinderbox.

They descend into the darkness, Eldarion leading, waving his torch in front of him; the stairs are a narrow spiral, and soon they lose sight of daylight. Eleniel concentrates on not slipping.

When they reach the bottom, there is a feeling of space. The torches illuminate a cavernous underground room, carved from the rock; three dark entrances loom ominously. "It's an entire underground system," says Eldarion softly; his voice nevertheless is echoed and amplified by the rock.

"Which way shall we go?" asks Eleniel nervously. There is something intimidating about the dark, silent openings.

"Straight ahead," says Eldarion, kneeling to sketch something in the dirt of the floor; Eleniel recognises the Ranger symbols from books she has read.

"Somehow, there must be air down here," she says as they walk into the dark passageway; as if to prove it, a draught whistles past them.

"Yes," says Eldarion thoughtfully as the torches flicker. "But I don't see any openings. There must be ventilation shafts in here somewhere." He arches an eyebrow at her. "Your ancestors were very thorough, Lady Librarian."

"Why thank you, my lord Prince."

They walk in silence for a good few minutes before Eldarion clears his throat and says somewhat awkwardly, "Tomorrow I must tell the Council about these tunnels. They could be dangerous."

"What about the passage from the Library to the Palace?" asks Eleniel without thinking; there is the barest hint of a pause before the Prince answers.

"I see no reason to disclose that information."

Eleniel smiles to herself.

"It's whether any of them could be used as a route into the city that is the issue here," continues Eldarion. "I have no wish to be blamed for an invasion."

"Nor me," mutters Eleniel.

Ahead, the texture of the darkness changes, and a solid wall comes into view. They stop, and Eleniel watches the Heir run his hands over it, to no avail. "It would appear that the way is blocked," he remarks.

"Perhaps it's blocked by magic?" suggests Eleniel.

"In a city of Men? Unlikely." Eldarion runs his fingers through his hair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Either someone blocked the passage, or there's a lever here somewhere…" he trails off.

Eleniel turns her attention to the sides of the passage. A suspiciously smooth patch of rock catches her eye; curious, she reaches out to touch it, and yelps in surprise when, with a grinding noise, it slides backwards. "Oh!"

"Best stand back," Eldarion warns, and hastily takes his own advice as the wall ahead of them begins to move, swinging inwards on some invisible hinge and letting in a stream of unbearably bright light. Temporarily blinded – in Eleniel's case, for the second time that day – they both shield their eyes.

When the dancing spots fade from her vision, Eleniel sees before her a grand, spacious room, where dustsheets cover the furniture and spiders spin webs from a huge chandelier in the centre. She recognises it instantly, and blinks in surprise.

"Whose house is this?" wonders Eldarion, stepping out into the room.

"No one's, sire," says Eleniel, and he turns to face her, one brow raised in query. "We're in the old house on Emerald Street. I used to play in here as a child."

"Emerald Street?" the Prince's brow furrows. "On the Fifth Circle?"

"Yes. I live around the corner," adds Eleniel, and he laughs.

"Wait, I have it now. The stories in your family also say that you own this house?"

"Well, yes," says Eleniel defensively, folding her arms. "It's also said to be haunted, which is why it's deserted."

Eldarion is shaking his head. "My lady, my lady – are there any other parts of this kingdom belonging to you that I should know about?"

"I am perfectly content with the Library," Eleniel says firmly.

Eldarion makes a mock-cringing bow, wringing his hands together and affecting a nasal whine. "In your domain, mistress, I am but your humble servant."

It takes them a while to find the lever to swing the wall back into place, but once they have done so Eleniel shows Eldarion the way out of the house; a window in the scullery with the catch rusted through. It is an undignified scramble, even more so than when she was twelve, but the Prince makes not a word of complaint; they soon stand at the side of the street, Eleniel trying to smooth her ruffled hair.

Emerald Street is directly below the Library, and the gate to the Sixth Circle is but a few yards away. The house is the largest in the neighbourhood, bigger even than some of those in the street above; the sweeping forecourt and imposing frontage give it the look of a lord's residence. Locals pass it on the other side of the road. Any deserted mansion will inevitably gain the reputation of being haunted, and this one is no exception.

"I must take my leave of you here," says Eldarion a little wistfully. "My father wished to see me – I think he is suspicious of my days being so suddenly filled."

Eleniel nods, something twisting in her stomach. Eldarion takes one looks at her and says sharply, "I do not break my word, Eleniel."

Eleniel meets his grey eyes, and believes him. "No, my lord. I'm sorry." He still looks rather hurt, so she adds, "Shall I see you tomorrow?"

His face relaxes into one of those charming smiles. "Yes. Would you like me to lock the doors at the library? – I go to the stables, not to the palace."

"Could you?" asks Eleniel in some relief. "And I must go and try to find some more parchment; we've almost used it up."

"I'll provide more parchment," says Eldarion. "Call it – funding from the City Council, who will never notice it's gone. Until tomorrow, then." He kisses her hand as always, gives her a brief, warm smile, and then walks briskly away from her along the crowded street, his head bowed. Eleniel stands and watches him until he rounds the corner, out of her sight; then, jostled by the people hurrying past her, she makes her way slowly home, her heart curiously light.


	4. Chapter Three

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Everyone who's done so already, you have my undying gratitude and I offer you metaphorical chocolates :D

Chapter Three

Eldarion Telcontar, at twenty-eight, is already said by many to possess the wisdom of a man three times his age. His reputation as being fair-minded, learned, and above all diplomatic goes before him into other countries on the swift wings of Rumour, and foreign kings face the son of Elessar with the disturbing, nagging thought that the clear grey gaze of the sombre young man can read their very minds.

At the moment, the Heir to the throne is coming dangerously close to losing his temper.

The Lords of Gondor regard him from their seats around the long, oaken table with various degrees of bored indifference. It is a chilly morning, and the sky outside threatens snow; the fire roars in the hearth, a red glow casting its light over the room.

"My lord Prince," drawls an overweight, richly dressed man from the other end of the table; Eldarion recognises him vaguely, and then recalls that he is Lord Ginledon, lately arrived in Minas Tirith for the winter season. "Surely the money of the Council can be better spent than on clearing underground passages?"

"A waste of the City's resources," puts in another voice.

"As if any army would dare come against Minas Tirith," continues Ginledon, one be-ringed hand idly playing with the ends of his hair. "We could seriously damage the foundations of the houses in that area by excavating…"

"I do not propose excavation," says Eldarion, and Lord Stelbin, to his right, gives a desultory laugh.

"Ah yes, your highness, but what you propose and what you may wish to do are sometimes entirely different, are they not?"

The Prince raises an eyebrow in polite but dangerous enquiry. "My lord?"

"Well, for a start, there was the pension scheme." Stelbin leans back in his chair, hair falling into his sallow face, smirking round at the assembled nobles. "Half our money from the taxes that year was spent upon the languishing widows of sadly deceased soldiers, and it will be this year. Admirable in principal, granted, but we were unable to finish the building work on the Fifth Circle. And as for the policing of the lower levels – " Stelbin starts to laugh, his eyes glittering with something like malice. "Why, I believe that Nightingale Street has seen the arrest of no fewer than seventeen of our finest young gentlemen, behaving only as red-blooded Gondorians ought…"

"Your point, lord Stelbin?" snaps Eldarion, clenching his fists beneath the table.

"My point, Prince Eldarion, is that while your schemes are often most ambitious in terms of protecting the poor and upholding the good of the City, they cost us money! They upset the people that should not be upset! They – "

"Enough," says a quiet voice from the head of the table, and heads that have been avidly following the tense confrontation whip round immediately.

Aragorn Elessar, king of Gondor and Arnor and the Reunited Kingdom, regards the members of his Council sternly. He is a commanding figure, upright and kingly, and though his hair is now a silver-grey he is as vigorous now as he was when he came to the throne.

"My pardon, your majesty," says Stelbin lazily, but the King does not so much as look at him.

"Prince Eldarion, do you believe that this underground system could constitute a threat to the people of Minas Tirith?"

Eldarion meets his father's gaze. "Yes, sire, I do."

"And you wish to take time to search both these passages and the City Library?"

"Yes."

A muttering breaks out around the table. Father and son do not break eye contact, carrying on a silent communication.

_It is hopeless. They will never agree to it,_ says the King's look.

Eldarion stares back. _I need to try._

"We will put it to the vote," says the King abruptly. "All in favour of granting the Prince's request?"

A few hands are raised, but it is less than half. Among them are Faramir, Steward of Gondor, who shoots Eldarion a sympathetic look, Prince Elphir of Dol Amroth, and various men of the City Guilds, all powerful men whose good sense is renowned throughout the kingdom; on the other hand, the friends of Stelbin, Ginledon and other malcontents, are joined in this instance by those who have a vested interest in the constructions on the Fifth Circle, where most of the City's builders are employed.

"And there we have it," says Aragorn briskly. He nods at Lord Faramir. "I hereby declare this session closed, my lords."

The room empties slowly. Eldarion pointedly ignores the smirking Ginledon, who leaves the room with Lord Stelbin, deep in conversation. He dislikes and distrusts both men, in Ginledon's case because he considers him to be an ambitious coward – nothing so deadly – but in Stelbin's case for no reason whatsoever, other than that he sends shivers down Eldarion's spine. This fact greatly disturbs the Prince, as he tries his hardest to judge everyone on their merits; Stelbin is quiet, not overly sycophantic, and though he taxes his land hard he pays his own. There is no reason why Eldarion should dislike him so, but he has long decided that it is merely the results of an over-suspicious nature.

"My son?" The King has appeared noiselessly at his side, a rueful smile on his lips.

"Father," Eldarion sighs. "I apologise for pushing the Council."

"Please, do not," says Aragorn dryly as they leave the chamber. "It made for interesting viewing, I assure you. I'm only sorry that you didn't get your workforce; I would be interested to see what lies beneath these streets, as well as what secrets the Library holds."

"I did mean it, what I said about a threat to the City," says Eldarion, unable to prevent a note of defence from creeping into his tone; Aragorn notices it, of course, and laughs.

"Of course you did. And you are quite right; we cannot know who knows about those passages. If I were you, I would wait until you can command a voluntary workforce – Elboron returns soon from Ithilien, as do your sisters."

Eldarion runs a hand through his hair as they pass out into the cold morning. The court with its fountain is deserted; the White Tree leans over it with icicles hanging on its leaves. "Eleniel would hate to have hundreds of people invading her Library, anyway. She – is very proud."

"The librarian?" Elessar gives his only son a shrewd glance. "Will you manage to restore the place, do you think? I warn you, the land is owned by Lord Stelbin, and he has recently been threatening to knock down some of the buildings in that area."

"I believe that Eleniel may own the Library herself."

"Ah." Aragorn nods.

"If we can find the deeds to the place – " Eldarion breaks off suddenly, as a bell clangs, sharp in the frosty air. "I'm late. Good day, father!" he takes off running, the King's laughter floating after him.

When he arrives at the Library, Eleniel has just started to clear the shelves of the next section; sneezing in the clouds of dust, Eldarion joins her. Together, they work hard, with a brief halt for lunch; Eleniel does not speak often, and Eldarion finds her presence soothing after the irritations of the Council.

"Knock down the buildings?" she repeats, when he tells her of Stelbin's alleged plans. She looks up at him from her seat on the floor, eyes wide. "But – there's – he can't knock down the Library!"

Eldarion frowns. "If we could but prove that you own the land, then…"

"And how am I to do that?" demands Eleniel. "I don't even own any mysterious artefacts, much less useful pieces of paper!"

"Perhaps there is something in here," says Eldarion firmly.

"Not in the section on Fine Wines, there's not," mutters Eleniel, doodling on her parchment, looking down so that her short-cropped russet hair falls forward and hides her face. Eldarion gazes down at her from his rickety ladder, and feels a sudden surge of protectiveness.

"Come, Eleniel. Pessimism does not suit you," he tells her briskly, and she sighs.

"No, my lord. Sorry."

Aware that his companion is shaken by the news, Eldarion feels a twinge of guilt for saying next what he does. "I'm afraid that tomorrow I will have to leave early; the party arrives from Ithilien in the afternoon, and I am expected to be present. I have not seen my sisters for several months now."

Eleniel looks up again. "Oh, then I hope it doesn't snow too much for them to get through."

"I should think that the roads will be fine," says Eldarion. "But I do apologise."

"Not at all," says Eleniel immediately and with a smile. "They are your family – of course you wish to see them!" she stands up, shaking the dust from the skirt of her plain dress. "I think that it's growing dark – I need to get home and reassure the cat that I've not deserted her."

"What do you call your cat?" asks Eldarion curiously as he descends the ladder. Idril, the eldest of his sisters, has a battered and evil-tempered ginger tomcat which she worships, and which in turn occasionally allows her to hold it. Whenever Eldarion goes near it, it glares at him as though he were singularly responsible for the crimes of the world. Eldarion, consequently, is a confirmed dog-lover.

Eleniel makes a face. "My dear brother named the poor thing. He called her Battleaxe."

Eldarion grins. "It could be worse. My sister's cat is called Lothlorien."

That startles a laugh out of her. It is a nice laugh, reflects Eldarion, although it is used far too sparingly; he gathers up the unused parchment for her, a great pile of it that he has stolen from the Palace storerooms, and they start to make their way back down the Library.

It is fast becoming dark, and Eldarion does not see the tall figure sitting on the steps until they are quite near and an amused voice says, "Well, my son, I congratulate you; you have made an impressive discovery."

Eldarion bows. "Father. May I present Eleniel, the Librarian?" Eleniel, beside him, makes an awkward curtsey, still clutching the records.

"The pleasure is all mine," says the King kindly. He stands up and smiles affably at them. "My lady, I am very much impressed. I had no idea that the City Library was so – well, _large._" Eldarion hides a smile; Elessar has probably been here for the past hour, silently exploring the place and listening to their spontaneous conversations unseen.

"Thank you, your majesty," says Eleniel nervously. She puts down the records on the desk.

"I wish you both luck in your – endeavours." Aragorn's face remains impassive, but to Eldarion, his tone speaks volumes; hefrowns at his father, who looks back innocently. "I am unable to provide you with the help you require, unfortunately; this building belongs to the City, not the Crown."

_Unless Eleniel can prove her claims. _Eldarion sighs, wishing not for the first time that the Council were made up of more forward-thinking individuals, but knowing as he does so that Elessar is reluctant to wield the power to reform such a group. It is, at any rate, better to have the malcontents grumbling in the open than behind closed doors.

"I shall have to persuade the Queen to pay you a visit," the King is saying, and Eldarion blinks. Queen Arwen has her own powers, which she often uses to great effect; it is very hard to refuse a request when the eyes of an elven-queen are boring into one's soul. "Come, Eldarion; we are expected at the Embassy, I believe."

"Which will give me an excellent opportunity to astound all present with my complete ignorance of Haradric," says Eldarion wryly. His vocabulary is limited to 'Surrender!' 'We need food and water' and, usefully, 'Your mother had carnal relations with the son of a pig'.

"You will be your usual charming self, I am sure. My lady, it was a pleasure." The King bows, and then leaves, running lightly up the stairs; Eldarion turns to Eleniel with a wry smile.

"Until tomorrow, Lady Librarian." He kisses her hand, with its ink-stains and rather dirty nails, and follows his father out into the darkening day, leaving her standing there with her cheeks flushed.

Aragorn is waiting for him under the arched entrance; he raises an eyebrow as his son approaches slowly. "Eldarion? – I think that what you are doing is a fine thing."

Eldarion shrugs. "What else could I do? Eleniel needs the help."

"You know perfectly well that most others would not have dreamt of it. And I like the young lady– she has interesting views. I think that she would not look out of place at court. She has Numenorean blood in her, you know, despite the hair; not beautiful, perhaps, but certainly striking," adds his father, watching him closely.

"No doubt." Eldarion sets off down the street at a brisk pace. "Come on, ancient warrior, or we'll be late," he calls back over his shoulder.

Aragorn smiles, a small, knowing smile, his eyes fond as he watches the upright figure of his Heir, who walks with the long and assured strides of a Ranger. "No doubt," he echoes softly, and follows his son, his worn boots making scarcely any noise on the cobbles.


	5. Chapter Four

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Thankyou, those who've reviewed before, for thou art all, without exception, moste dear to mine heart.

Chapter Four

When Eleniel arrives at the Library the next day, she is carrying two buckets and two coils of thick rope, and wearing a pair of her brother Taeglin's old breeches. Eldarion is there before her, wrapped in a cloak and leaning on the gatepost; he raises his eyebrows in polite enquiry as she draws near.

"Windows," Eleniel tells him, setting down the buckets and easing the heavy rope off her shoulders; the Prince hurries to take it from her. "They badly need cleaning; I thought we should have a rest from cataloguing."

"An excellent idea," says Eldarion rather doubtfully, hefting the rope, "but surely you don't think – you can't mean the windows at the front?"

Eleniel frowns. "Yes, that's what the rope is for."

Eldarion takes a step backwards. "Wait a moment. My lady, I am not…"

"No, you're not. I am." Eleniel grins up at his look of horror. "Come, my lord, I am sure that you can take my weight on a rope!"

"But – but I could drop you!"

"Then we shall tie it to the pointy bits on the roof. It's perfectly safe; there's an account written somewhere by my great-great-grandfather of how he did exactly the same thing." Eleniel picks up her buckets again. "There're steps up onto the roof, right there beside the entrance. You take the rope up, my lord prince, and I'll go and find some water." She departs, biting her lips to keep from smiling.

There is a well at the end of Emerald Street, just below the Library; Eleniel fills her buckets and walks rather more slowly back up the hill. Looking up, and shading her eyes against the bright sunlight, she sees a dark figure crouching on the edge of the roof and peering down at the very long drop.

The steps onto the roof are small and steep, not intended for frequent use, although Eleniel has often gone up them on warm days, to sit on the warm stone and watch the life of the City far below, the lofty mountains and the Tower of Ecthelion soaring behind her. Today, the stones are cold. The roof is domed, with a broad walkway around the sides; the cool breeze whips around Eleniel's ankles as she edges carefully forwards, extremely conscious of having no hands free to hold on, until she reaches the wide, smooth platform at the front of the building.

Eldarion is there waiting, running the rope through his hands and still looking worried. Eleniel notes that he has tied the thicker rope onto a sturdy part of the decorative stonework with knots that look as though they would hold up one of the Mumakil from Harad. "Eleniel? – Are you sure that you want to do this?"

Eleniel sighs. "Yes. Come, your highness, you were the one clambering about atop high shelves the other day!"

"Not a hundred feet above the streets!" protests Eldarion. "And I recall you being worried even then!"

"That was for your safety," says Eleniel primly. "Will you help me tie myself to this rope?"

The Prince rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath that Eleniel does not quite catch, and grabs the end of the rope. "Arms up," he instructs, and passes it tightly around her waist, and then between her legs, standing close to her to tie the same complicated knot that he has used on the roof. He then looks at her sternly. "Right. Get to the edge."

Eleniel meekly does as she's told.

"Face inwards," Eldarion tells her, bracing the rope against his left side and taking up the slack. "Good. Hold the rope with both hands. Now, lean back."

"What, _right_ back?"

"Yes, right back." Eldarion scowls at her. "I will not be responsible for you slipping and breaking every bone in your body, though it would be much easier were you not determined on this foolish venture."

Eleniel gulps and leans back, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the great drop beneath her. She does not usually have a problem with heights, but is beginning to feel that there is a distinct difference between standing safely with solid stone behind one and finding oneself suspended only by a piece of rope.

"I've got you," says Eldarion's voice from somewhere above her. "Now. Step backwards."

Only pride prevents Eleniel from speaking; she squeezes her eyes tight shut and steps back.

There is a tremendous jerk as her foot slips. Eleniel yelps in terror as she plummets downwards, then smashes painfully into the wall as the rope around her waist tightens; above her, Eldarion curses in what sounds like a form of Quenyan, then yells down, "Eleniel! Are you all right?"

"I think so," calls back Eleniel, somewhat shakily. She clings to the rope for dear life. "Can you lower me down?"

"I can try." Eldarion's voice is strained. "Wait, let me – right. Are you sure you don't want me to pull you up?"

"I'm nearly there now," points out Eleniel. Her heartbeat has slowed back down to something resembling its usual rate. "Are_ you_ all right?"

"I am. Look, I'll lower you – I've made a turn in the rope, so that should make it smoother. Just use your hands to fend yourself off from the wall." Eleniel starts to descend, and does as he says, taking note of cracks in the stonework that she can use on her way back up.

Eventually, she stops moving, dangling at the top of the huge circular window. Eldarion's voice floats down. "Is that far enough?"

"Yes!" She squints up against the sun. "Can you lower the first bucket with the soap in it, please?"

"Hang on." Eldarion's head disappears, and Eleniel takes his advice literally, grasping the rope with both hands. Through the grimy window she can see vague shapes of shelves in the Library. Luckily, the glass itself appears to be intact; this side of Minas Tirith is sheltered from the winds, and the glass is thick and durable.

A scraping sound calls her attention upwards. A bucket is descending, sloshing occasionally when it catches on the walls; Eleniel ducks her head to avoid drips. "Eleniel? Is that far enough?" shouts the Prince.

"I think so!" Eleniel reaches carefully for the bucket and pulls it towards her; digging around for the cloth in the cold, soapy water, she tentatively starts to rub at the old glass.

It is hard work, and after two hours or so have passed they are both tired. Eldarion swings her to and fro across the surface of the window, winches her slowly downwards, and fetches fresh water for her when she runs out, while Eleniel scrubs away with a grim determination. By the time she reaches the bottom of the window, the muscles in her shoulders and back are screaming in protest, and she looks up at the Prince with difficulty.

"Finished," she yells. "Pass me the fresh water?"

Eldarion lowers the last bucketful, and Eleniel sloshes it against the window. The dirty water runs away down the wall, and the clean glass shines in the pale sunlight.

"I'm pulling you up," shouts Eldarion. "Try and fend yourself off from the window." She starts to move jerkily upwards as he winds the rope around the stone; by the time she is able to grasp the edge of the roof, she can hear Eldarion's heavy breathing. She clings there, dizzy with relief, her eyes screwed shut, and is wondering how she will ever get over the edge when his voice says in her ear, "All right. I've got you," and she is lifted over the edge of the roof and let down onto the flat platform.

Eleniel opens her eyes, and the world sways as she tries to stand; Eldarion catches her with a laugh and makes her sit down again, collapsing next to her. Helooks hot and dishevelled, with his shirt sticking to him and his hair everywhere. "Well, my lady, that was certainly an experience."

Eleniel lies flat on her back, enjoying the feeling of blissfully solid stone beneath her. "It was," she agrees. "And I'm sorry I was so stubborn."

"No you're not," says Eldarion with a tired grin, and Eleniel cannot be bothered to dispute the point. "I take it that the other windows will be easier?"

"Oh yes." Eleniel props herself up on her elbows. "The long ones all open inwards, so we can do them from inside."

"Good," sighs the Prince, and flops backwards as well. "Oof! Oh, Eleniel, both your muscles and mine will hate you for this tomorrow."

Eleniel huffs a laugh, shivering as the chill breeze lances through her damp clothes. She likes Eldarion best when he is like this, less painfully polite and infinitely more human. "I think that lunch would be welcome, my lord."

"A good idea – are you cold? Here – " he wraps his cloak firmly around her, ignoring her half-hearted protests, and then pulls her to her feet. "Come, if you move then you will be warm again. A brisk walk down to the Fifth Circle…"

"Hot food," says Eleniel with another shiver, watching him untie the ropes. He shoots her a worried look "And then I'll do some cataloguing."

Eldarion hands her the buckets, and they leave the roof, clambering down the narrow steps at the side of the building. It is good to be back at ground level again, and Eleniel feels her head begin to clear as warmth seeps back into her hands. The Prince, true to his word, marches her along the street at a vigorous pace, not letting her slow down until they have reached the bakery two streets below; he buys them both hot pastries, and they eat them as they make their way back up to the Library.

By the time they reach the entrance, Eleniel has warmed up considerably; she hands him back his cloak with a word of thanks as they come down into the foyer.

Eldarion listens as a bell tolls from the Citadel. "I must leave before very much longer. Is there really time for us to start the cataloguing again?"

"Probably not," agrees Eleniel. It is becoming a major operation to set up the records. "After you've left, my lord, I think I'll go and watch the Royal Family arriving."

Eldarion's lips twitch. "Aye, do; all of the Royal Family bar two. Still, if I had gone to Ithilien then I would hardly have met you, would I?"

"Why did you not go to Ithilien?" asks Eleniel curiously.

"A number of reasons." The Prince drops down into one of the dusty chairs. "The first was that the King requested my presence for the law-courts and councils that were running at the time. The second was that said councils were dealing with issues which I felt were important to several schemes that I have initiated – the pension for bereaved families of our armies, for example." Eleniel nods; the pension scheme, at the time, had caused a great uproar in the City Council. Looking at Eldarion's serious face, she wonders if he is aware that he holds an almost heroic status among the poorer inhabitants of Minas Tirith; with the gradual ending of the wars against the South, many families have found their livelihoods cut short and their men-folk either dead or unable to work.

"The third reason," continues Eldarion, unaware of her scrutiny, "is that were I to have gone to Ithilien, I would most likely be engaged by now to some simpering lady-in-waiting. Most of them are quite – determined."

Eleniel laughs. "I thought that there were less noblewomen in the City of late. They must all have followed the Queen."

"Oh, they did," says Eldarion wryly. "Most of the court has gone. Tomorrow, the Citadel will once more ring to the sycophantic laughter of Gondor's nobility. And before you even begin to look morose, Lady Librarian, I have no intention of abandoning you for the pleasures of the Court – although I may bring a sister, if I am allowed?"

"Of course," says Eleniel, blushing, and wondering which sister he means.

"Thank you." Eldarion gives her one of his sudden charming smiles, and much to her annoyance her blush intensifies. "I think that you and Idril will get along well together."

"She is – the eldest of your sisters?" Eleniel has always found it hard to remember the exact ages of the three princesses, but she does know that Princess Idril was born four months after herself, nineteen years ago.

"Yes – around your age, I should imagine." The Prince stands up, stretching. "I must go and make myself look presentable, or I shall disgrace the family. I must also go and be polite to Lady Celeglin, who I doubt has yet forgiven me for not following her to Ithilien." He eyes her speculatively. "Keep warm, Eleniel." He kisses her hand and departs, whistling, for the Citadel.

Eleniel takes care to coil the rope and store it behind her desk, reasoning that it might one day be useful, then picks up her buckets and, locking the heavy oaken door behind her, walks at a sedate pace down to her small, untidy home on Emerald Street.

When she arrives, her neighboursare all mostly congregated at the end of the street, where Guards line the route that the Royal Family will take. Slipping past them, Eleniel walks along the road against the flow of people until she reaches the narrow, dilapidated house that is sandwiched between the Dancing Southron Inn and a larger, newer dwelling, home to the proprietors of the herb-store opposite.

Drietal, landlord of the inn, is standing at his door, wiping out a tankard with a damp cloth. He waves at Eleniel, who raises her buckets in greeting; Drietal and his wife are good people, and often let her wipe dishes and take leftovers both for the cat and for herself. "Ho there, Eleniel! Not watching the parade?"

"I will be!" calls back Eleniel, setting her shoulder to her front door and slamming her body-weight against it; it bursts inwards.

Drietal laughs, his belly wobbling. "We saw you earlier. Like a squirrel on the roof! Who's the young man?"

Eleniel sets down her burden in the messy hallway and pokes her head back outside. "None of your concern, Drietal!" she says cheerfully.

Drietal's wife Andralen appears beside her husband and flicks him with her wooden spoon. "Enough, old fool! The girl's business is her own. Eleniel, you'll take a pot of my vegetable soup tonight. I've made too much again, can't think how I manage, mind like a sieve." She winks hugely at Eleniel, brushes aside her attempts at thanks and shoos her husband indoors. Eleniel shoves her own door shut behind her and makes her way up the crooked wooden staircase to her bedroom, where she is greeted by a haughty stare from the grey cat curled at the foot of her bed.

"Hello, Battleaxe," sighs Eleniel, picking her way across the book-strewn floor to rub her cat behind the ears. Battleaxe permits this regally, her yellow eyes blinking in lazy enjoyment. "Yes, I'm home early. I should stay in if I were you; the streets are heaving." She changes hurriedly into a dress, leaving the breeches strewn across the bed, and runs out into the street again, to join the throngs of merry people.

The Royal Family is extremely popular. The people have long grown used to their Elven Queen, and a fierce loyalty to her and to her children is evident as they stand laughing and chattering in the middle of the street. Eleniel worms her way forward, but is still some way from the front when the cry goes up, "The Queen! The Queen is coming!" and the cheering starts.

First come the Guards, riding past on their fine horses, their armour decorated with the tree and stars of Gondor. Then, behind them, the Queen on a grey palfrey, in robes of midnight blue; Eleniel cheers with the rest and stands on the tips of her toes in an attempt to see the serenely beautiful face. On the side of the Queen nearest to Eleniel trots a pony, its saddle empty, and on the other rides a young girl with flame-red hair; Princess Lhachel, pale-faced and tired-looking, but smiling.

Behind the Queen, Eleniel sees Eldarion, astride a massive grey stallion that ambles along peacefully and holding the youngest of his sisters, Siledhel, before him. She waves at the people, who cheer harder; the youngest child of Elessar is beloved for her sunny nature and her child-like beauty. Eldarion turns in the saddle to say something to the tall young woman riding beside him; Princess Idril, clad in grey, already famed for her beauty and her sweet nature.

A tall man in front of her obscures Eleniel's view for a moment; when he moves, she sees with a jolt of surprise that both Eldarion and his eldest sister are looking in her direction. Eldarion quirks an eyebrow, the Princess gives a little smile, and then they have turned the corner and are lost to Eleniel's sight.

Eleniel, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders and being jostled repeatedly by the crowd, does not follow the procession up into the Sixth Circle, seeing the crush around the Gate; she does not even stay to see the brightly-dressed ladies pass, but turns and makes her way back to her house, humming rather tunelessly under her breath. There she sits down in the tiny kitchen with Battleaxe curled on her lap, and loses herself in tales of the First Age, of heroic deeds and long-ago battles over forgotten wrongs; before long, the only sounds are the gentle purring of the cat and the crackle of the turning pages.


	6. Chapter Five

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Thankyou, lovely people who've reviewed before!

Updates will probably be about once a week from now on, school being what it is. I'm off to London for three days (going to see Guys and Dolls YAY). Anyway. Er. On with the story :D

Chapter Five

_Dearest Eleniel,_

_It seems an age since last I wrote! I hope that this letter finds you well. Indeed, I think that your last letter to me was just after father had passed away – a loss, dear sister, that you should never have had to bear alone – and you sounded most down in spirits. Your talk was all of dry and dusty scrolls._

_Life here in the North goes on much the same. There is not a lot to be said for being a 'standing army', other than that you may impart to Elessar the extreme displeasure of most of his troops at the prospect of wintering here! The veterans tell me that I will curse the freezing mud. I suppose Elessar knows this; after all, they say that he was a Ranger, and they have it even harder than we._

_Talking of the Rangers, who come and go around Fornost as they please, my thoughts turn to the days when we would creep into the stables with wooden swords and stalk each other though the hay. Alas, I fear that the weight of a sword of steel is far greater than a wooden one, and the wild-men who attack from the northern mountains not nearly as gentle as a contrite sibling (I still remember falling from the hay-loft, and the way that you read to me while I was unable to walk). But do not worry yourself unduly, sister; no injury has yet befallen me._

_Breglir tells me that the wagons leave soon, so I must finish with all haste. Dear sister, take care of yourself (and Battleaxe). Do not waste away your life in the Library; you are living, and have no place among the words of the dead._

_Your loving brother,_

_Taeglin_

Eleniel's eyes are damp. Hastily, she swipes at them with the sleeve of her dress. The letter, written in her brother's careful hand upon poor-quality parchment, is newly arrived from the North in the baggage-trains that carry mail and the wounded back to the city. Eleniel folds it and places it in her pocket.

The Library appears considerably lighter this morning. The sun streams in through the round window, catching the rich colours of the wooden shelves. It is early yet, and there is no sign of the Prince, for which Eleniel is grateful; it has given her chance to read her letter in peace.

No sooner has she begun to wonder whether the lure of the Court has not proved stronger than anticipated when she hears the sound of voices from the passage to the Palace. She has barely a chance to leap to her feet before Eldarion emerges; there is a cobweb caught in his hair and dust on his nose. "Lady Librarian! How does this morning find you?"

"Well enough. I have a letter from my brother," Eleniel says with a grin, then her attention is drawn back to the passage entrance as a voice exclaims, "'Darion! This place is _huge_!" and a young woman with heavy coils of raven hair stumbles out, looking around in awe.

Eldarion sighs, although a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "Idril, this is Eleniel. Eleniel, my sister."

Princess Idril spins around, and fixes Eleniel with a delighted smile. "This is the Librarian? – of course, I saw you yesterday! Eldarion's told me all about you. How do you do?" she holds out her hand, and Eleniel, who has been wondering whether she ought to curtsey, takes it with a feeling of relief. The handshake is firm, and Eleniel tentatively smiles back.

"It's an honour, my lady."

"Not for you, I shouldn't think, for I am hardly the most organised mind in the City! And please, call me Idril if we are to work together."

Eleniel feels as though she should object, but before she can do so Eldarion has interrupted them. "Eleniel? Do you have the records?"

"Oh, yes." Eleniel hands him the old records book from her desk, then picks up the new parchment. There is something slightly overwhelming about being in the same room as Idril; it is as though everything fades in comparison.

The latter falls into step beside her as they make their way down the Library. "I heard about how you cleaned the windows," she remarks, blue-grey eyes twinkling. "You are very brave!"

Eleniel blushes. "It needed doing. And I believe your brother thought me foolhardy rather than brave." She shoots a glance at Eldarion.

Idril laughs. "'Darion always has been over-cautious."

"No," protests her brother, "I am sensible. There is, I assure you, a difference. You, sister, have my share of daring." He narrows his eyes. "I hear tales of your wild riding through the woods of Ithilien."

Eleniel laughs as they continue to tease each other. By the time they reach the end of the Library, she has decided that she likes Princess Idril very much, and after two hours of solid work her initial reluctance about working with not one but two members of the Royal Family has all but vanished. Idril takes over the writing, her neat script much easier to read than Eleniel's flowing scrawl, and Eleniel devotes herself to looking things up in the old records; they are in the section on trade with Rohan, and some of the writing is in Rohirric, of which her knowledge is scant and theirs excellent.

When they stop for lunch, Idril orders the Prince to go and buy them food, and then as his long legs disappear up the stairs turns to Eleniel with a brilliant smile. "I understand that you have a brother?"

"Yes – he's in the North." Eleniel toys with the ends of her hair and Idril makes a sympathetic sound.

"It must be awful, living all alone!" she sits down in one of the armchairs and a cloud of dust arises. "Eldarion was away for – oh, years, with the armies in Khand, and then before that he was in Imladris. I remember how I moped around when he first left!" She grins ruefully. "Of course, I have my sisters, but – well. It must be harder for you."

"I do miss Taeglin," Eleniel admits, "but he's due home next year, and I'm busy; I don't have much time to mope." She suddenly realises what she has said, and her hand flies to her mouth. "Oh, not that I meant – I didn't mean…"

Idril laughs. "It's all right. I'm the first to admit that I am a thoroughly spoilt individual; when there's nothing to entertain me I am often too lazy to entertain myself." Startled by this burst of introspection, Eleniel looks curiously at her.

"I can keep you busy, my lady, if it's employment you lack, though I fear that I lack somewhat on the entertaining side," she says wryly, and Idril blushes.

"Oh, I must sound so awful! No, I must admit to being quite glad that Eldarion's discovered you. For his sake as well as mine, you know. He speaks very highly of you." Her gaze is disturbingly like the King's.

Eleniel ducks her head. "I'm honoured, really I am, I – I can't think why he would want to – well, he seems to _enjoy_ it so much, and…"

Idril takes pity on her and abruptly changes the subject. "I hear tell that you have passages other than the one through which I was dragged this morning," she remarks. "Will you show me?"

"Gladly!" Eleniel leaps to her feet. "The Prince discovered it by accident; it's right down the far end…" she sets off down the Library at a brisk pace. Idril keeps step with her; the Princess is taller than she is, although Eleniel is by no means small. The Princess also moves with much the same grace as her brother, the hem of her long dress whispering against the floor, although there is something strange about her movements; it's almost as though the grace is forced, the result of hard-won practice rather than natural poise.

"I believe that 'Dari thinks there to be an underground system," Idril says eagerly as they turn the corner at the far wall. "He said that he tried to convince the Council. I'm not surprised that he didn't get far, knowing what – good grief, there's a hole in the floor!"

"I've already nearly fallen down it head-first," says Eleniel, lighting one of the old torches with Eldarion's tinderbox, still lying on the ground from their last expedition. "Here…" she passes the torch to Idril and lowers herself down into the darkness.

The air is clearer than last time, she is pleased to note when they reach the bottom of the steep steps. Behind her, Idril trips over her skirt hem and drops the torch, which miraculously carries on burning; Eleniel turns in surprise.

"So clumsy," mutters the Princess, scrambling to her feet, the mask of poise abandoned. She catches Eleniel's startled look and sighs. "I'm sorry. You'd think, being elf-born…" she gestures helplessly. "I have problems with stairs."

Eleniel takes the torch from her. "Are you all right? Is it – do you feel dizzy, or…"

"No," says Idril resignedly, "just clumsy. I was the most awkward child – the family joke is that my share of sophistication went to Eldarion, while I had his share of recklessness. And all other flaws, including an easily-lost temper, a lack of tact and a propensity to talk constantly." In the flickering torchlight, the Princess's face is flushed, and Eleniel, sensing that for once someone else is feeling more self-conscious than she is, places an awkward hand on her arm. Idril looks contrite. "I'm so sorry, Eleniel, I didn't mean to…"

"That's all right." Eleniel smiles at her shyly. "You're welcome to be as – as ungraceful as you like in the Library. I don't mind, and I'm sure that Elda – the Prince doesn't."

Idril's clear laugh echoes around the cavernous space in which they stand. "Why thank you! I shall bear it in mind; you could neither of you be more full of censure than the ladies at Court. I do not go a day but that I trip over something and some obsequious woman _sniggers_ at me." She looks around, and her eyes widen. "Goodness! Which way shall we go?"

"Well, we've been down the passage straight ahead," says Eleniel. "It leads to an old house on the Fifth Circle, right by the Gate. Left or right?"

"Left," says Idril decisively, marching off in that direction. Eleniel follows her with the torch; they enter the passage, but have only gone a few feet before they find their way blocked by a wall of rubble.

"It must have caved in," says Eleniel, disappointed. She scuffs at the dirt with her toe. "Shall we try the other way?"

"I wonder where it led to?" wonders the Princess, following Eleniel back across the cavers to the right-hand passageway.

"Who knows?" Eleniel notices that the floor is not level; there is a definite slope to the passage. It becomes more apparent as they advance, until they find themselves edging forward cautiously on the rapidly-steepening incline.

"Why aren't there any steps?" pants Idril from above Eleniel. Her feet kick loose a shower of dirt. "Oh, sorry, Eleniel!"

Eleniel peers ahead. The torch illuminates only a little way, and all she can see is darkness. She lets her gaze drift upward and is surprised to see that the ceiling is high above them; the roof has remained level even while the passage slopes away. "That's odd. Do you see the ceiling? Almost as though the floor has sunk, or…" she trails off with a frown, as something on the edge of her hearing catches her attention. A murmuring, far below them, almost as though there are people down there…

A strong draught suddenly whistles past them, and there is a creaking, groaning noise, as of ancient machinery coming to life. Eleniel gasps as a high-pitched whine fills the tunnel, and slithers backwards on the steep floor, which is suddenly moving of its own accord, tilting steadily downwards as the grinding of massive gears echoes through the shaking passage. Idril yelps in alarm and grabs her by the arm. "Ai, Valar! Run!" she cries.

Eleniel drops the torch in the ensuing scramble, as the Princess drags her backwards. Down below them, there are shouts, which echo and then are suddenly cut off with a sound like the slamming of a massive steel door; the whine and grumble of machinery far below is cut of with it, and then the echoes die, and the only sounds are their gasping breath and the thudding of Eleniel's heart in her ears.

"Maybe that wasn't such a good idea," she says unsteadily to the all-encompassing darkness.

Idril's hand is still clamped onto her arm. Eleniel can feel her trembling. "It's – very dark."

"Yes." Eleniel has no idea where they stand, or where the stairs are. She moves forwards, Idril still clinging to her arm, and takes a breath. "Maybe – if we call, someone will hear…" she does not mention that they have left nothing to tell the Prince where they've gone.

Idril inhales sharply, and then bellows in a voice that is surely loud enough to be heard at the Citadel, "ELDARION! 'Dari, HELP!" then remarks to Eleniel in a tone that is nearly normal, "He should be back by now, don't you think?"

Eleniel waits for her ears to stop ringing. Even if the Heir is in Rohan, it seems unlikely that he can have failed to hear the Princess's enthusiastic holler.

There are muffled thumps above them, and then the Prince's voice floats down. "Oh, so _that's_ where you… yes, all right, Idril, I'm coming…" and sure enough, the flicker of torchlight appears to their right, followed by an anxious-looking Eldarion. "Whatever happened? You're filthy, both of you! Did you come down here without a torch?"

"The passages are booby-trapped!" says Idril breathlessly as they ascend the steps into the blessed daylight. "There's some kind of weighted slide, if there hadn't been two of us we'd be – well, we'd be a long way down…"

"I heard voices," interrupts Eleniel. Eldarion's brows snap together. "Voices, at the bottom! Someone must know about those passages!"

"There was, there was a shout!" Idril says earnestly.

"So someone must know how to get down there without setting off that – whatever it was…"

"Maybe there's another set of passages down there, maybe…"

Eldarion holds up a hand, stopping their excited speculation. "Wait! You heard voices?"

"A shout. Someone was surprised." Idril narrows her eyes at him. "Didn't you hear the machinery?"

"Of course I did!" snaps her brother, the mask of calm dropping for a second. "The shelves rattled! The floor shook! I had no _idea_ where you'd gone!" The change in his manner is almost frightening, yet somehow thrilling; this is the man who commands battlefields and instils fear into his enemies, the heir of Elessar and Captain of the White Tower.

Eleniel and Idril exchange glances. "Oh," says Eleniel, feeling very small. "I'm sorry, sire, we didn't…"

"Never mind." Eldarion exhales swiftly, the shutters are replaced and he turns to pick up his tinderbox. "I suggest we eat, and then get on with the work; I fear we must leave in time for the dinner at the palace after all. So much for our avoidance tactics, sister."

"Leave?" Idril's tone is disappointed. "Why? This will be an exceedingly dull affair, brother, and I shall have to entertain that odious man from Lebennin again."

Eldarion offers Eleniel his arm, and they start back up to the foyer. "I met Lady Celeglin at the Gate, and she –"

"Oh, _dear_ Celeglin," says Idril in a falsely bright voice.

" – she informed me that there is to be some kind of announcement. I'm sorry, Eleniel, I was not aware."

"What was Celeglin doing outside the Court?" says Idril suspiciously from the other side of her brother.

Eldarion sighs. "She was, and I quote, 'enjoying the sights and sounds of the City'. I thought she'd follow me, but I managed to lose her by going to the stables and then doubling back. And don't look like that; she is not wholly unpleasant, Idril."

"Well, if she's seen you for the day then she's probably happy," grumbles the Princess.

"No doubt." Eldarion hands them the hot pastries, and makes them both sit down while they eat. Eleniel is the first to finish; she wanders a little away from the other two, to where she can lean against the window behind her desk and look down upon the southern face of the City. It still has not snowed, but the clouds are heavy and foreboding. Behind her, Idril chatters to Eldarion about people at court; not wanting to intrude, Eleniel pays little attention until she hears her name spoken and turns to see them both looking at her.

"I'm sorry?" she says, embarrassed. Eldarion laughs.

"We were wondering whether you would care to accompany us this evening. Obviously, presenting you formally at court is out of the question at such short notice, but I think we could safely pass you off as a noblewoman from some obscure land…"

Eleniel's blood runs cold. "No! No, I – it would be terrifying! And I know nothing of, well, of…"

"I don't blame you," says Idril bluntly. "These dinners are dreadfully formal. But if you would care to, then…"

"It's ever so kind of you," stammers Eleniel. "But no, thank you." Eldarion smiles at her, the earlier tension between them gone. She lets out a breath she hasn't realised that she's been holding; for some reason, having him think her thoughtless and silly is something she dreads.

"Perhaps another time, then. I should like you to meet the Queen, and I certainly cannot drag her through dusty tunnels; likewise Lhachel."

"Oh, yes!" exclaims Idril. "The three of you could discuss ancient texts. I should feel quite left out."

Eleniel has a sudden vivid mental image of herself, in her much-mended heavy-duty dress and shabby boots, being presented to the Queen amongst all the finery of the Gondorian High Court. She suppresses a shudder. Somehow, the thought of meeting Arwen Undomiel is infinitely more terrifying than that of meeting King Elessar.

The rest of the afternoon passes swiftly. Eleniel is startled to realise that, by the time the sun has sunk in fiery splendour beyond the mountains, they have accomplished a considerable amount of work between them; in fact, they cleared the end sections. It is with a feeling of virtuous pride, therefore, that she gathers the parchment and carries it back to the desk.

"If we cleared out some of these shelves, you would have somewhere to store the records," remarks the Prince, gesturing at the shelves beside the desk, which are overflowing with old papers and damaged books, a relic to days when the Library operated on a daily basis.

"Hmm. Maybe I'll do that this evening." Eleniel rolls her head, stretching her neck; it emits a sharp _crack_ and the Prince jumps.

"Eleniel! Is that entirely healthy?" he protests.

"I need to find a stool to sit on. And maybe even a table," says Eleniel with a grin. Behind Eldarion, Idril sighs.

"I _dream_ of tables. You have it easy, 'Darion, with that nice comfy ladder."

"You should have heard him complaining about blisters the other day," says Eleniel with a straight face.

"Enough, enough!" Eldarion throws up his hands in mock surrender. "I shall say no more! Come, Idril, I know you will want to dress for dinner." As if to underline his words, the muffled sounds of a bell ring out from the Citadel. It tolls six times, and Idril jumps to her feet.

"Oh, it's late! _I'm_ late! Brother, I'll see you at dinner. Eleniel, until tomorrow!" She darts forward and hugs Eleniel tightly, then heads for the passageway at a run. It seems as though the light is a little dimmer at her departure.

Eldarion gives a rather self-conscious laugh and moves away. "I must leave too, or I shall also be late, and Lady Celeglin will be most displeased." His eyes meets hers, and Eleniel is struck once more by how piercing they are, like silvery rain on a summer's day. "Eleniel, I – I am sorry that I was – abrupt with you earlier. It was not my intention to shout, or – well." His smile is awkward. "I was worried."

Eleniel scrutinises him. "Sometimes – sometimes, I suppose, we all need to shout," she offers. Then, because he looks anxious, "I'm sorry, sire. I was foolish." She reaches for a stray sheet of parchment, to nudge it back into place, but he catches her hand and brings it to his lips, eyes never leaving hers, making disconcerting shivers run through her body.

"Until tomorrow, then?" he murmurs.

Eleniel nods, not trusting her own voice. He squeezes her hand once, and leaves.

The sun is all but gone, now. Eleniel sits down heavily behind the desk and with hands that shake just a little lights the old oil-lamp, then pulls her brother's letter towards her. If she writes a reply tonight, the wains will take it tomorrow.


	7. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Erm. Keep 'em coming, guys! And please, excuse both the POV shifts and the interesting attempts at showing where they happen...

Chapter Six

"…for the last time, I have no idea what you are talking about! And how _dare_ you follow me here!" The voice is Eleniel's, and she sounds both angry and frightened. Eldarion, who this morning has elected to walk to the Library with Idril – there are few people around, and it is a beautiful day, all crisp air and sparkling frost – hears the raised voices as he comes round the bend in the street; he stops dead at what he sees, anger rising in him like bile.

Eleniel is backed up against the Library door. A tall, burly man stands in front of her, his stance aggressive; behind him, three others lounge. They carry cudgels, and on their clothing is the symbol of a stag's head. Eldarion recognises it as the personal insignia of Lord Stelbin, and breaks into a run.

"You'll be out afore Midwinter," growls the man. "His Lordship doesn't want you poking round in what's none of your business. Then this place'll come down, and you'll be out of Emerald Street like a shot." He leers down at her. "'course, there's always employ for a pretty maid if you know where to…"

Eldarion's furious demand cuts across him. "_What is the meaning of this_?" he snarls, storming through the gateway, and the man's head whips around; he hastily lets go of Eleniel's shoulder and jumps back, stumbling in the long grass.

"Your royal highness, sir! I – a little misunderstandin', so to speak, over the matter of taxes, and…" He falters under the royal glare.

"Get out," Eldarion tells him tightly, as Idril arrives beside him, panting and white-faced. The blood is pounding in his ears. "Get out, and if I see you here again then it will go the worse for you." The man backs away, his expression terrified, and then turns and flees with his companions. "Eleniel! Are you all right?"

Eleniel nods, rubbing at her shoulder where the man grabbed her. She is pale, but appears unharmed; Idril slips a protective arm round her shoulders.

"Oh, you poor thing! 'Dari, were they men of Lord Stelbin? You know, the one with the creepy smile?"

"He's my landlord," says Eleniel with a shiver; Eldarion nods grimly.

"Yes, and I'm interested that he's employing mercenaries to do his dirty work. I've seen those men before." In the armies, during the last wars, when Gondor had been hard-pressed and the battles had been fought right up against the borders. "What was it they wanted?"

"I don't know. They kept saying that I was poking around too much, and it didn't pay to be too nosey – he plans to have the Library knocked down, by Midwinter, and everything burnt, he _owns _it, I can't stop him…" Eleniel scrubs a hand across her eyes. Idril offers her a handkerchief.

"Why now?" wonders Eldarion aloud, staring unseeing at the old stone. "Perhaps – it is petty cruelty, nothing more. If I had not brought things to the attention of the Council, then…"

"They've been trying to – persuade – me to leave ever since Father died," says Eleniel with a watery smile. "My lord, what do you think he meant by my poking round? The passages? Or is there something in the Library that he's afraid we'll find?"

"He can't know about those passages, surely!" exclaims Idril.

"Someone knew," says Eldarion absently, deep in thought. It is four days since his sister and Eleniel ventured into the passages, and since Eleniel heard the voices. Eldarion, knowing the strange things that can be heard deep underground, has been in two minds about this. "You heard a shout," he reminds her.

"It's – very far-fetched," says Idril doubtfully.

Eldarion gazes at them, and then abruptly reaches a decision. "Eleniel, I do not think that the Library is the best place for you this morning. You look tired." In truth, she looks more than tired; she looks as though she has been awake all night, her face is still pale, and her whole figure droops.

"I can still work," protests Eleniel. "I'm all right, just worried."

Idril nods almost imperceptibly at her brother. "Come, Eleniel, the fresh air will do you good. We will walk up to the Citadel. Brother, shall we meet you in the stables?"

Eldarion smiles at her. "If you like. Eleniel, may I have the key? I wish to check something."

Eleniel's sighs admits defeat. She rummages in a pocket and produces the key to the Library, which she then hands to Eldarion; he takes it with a bow, and watches Idril march her off down the street. The sound of the Princess's chatter fades as they round the corner out of sight.

Left alone, Eldarion makes his way down into the Library. As he comes down the steps he is struck by how much progress they have made; a rather over-enthusiastic Idril has swept the floor, and the windows have all now been cleaned. The area behind the desk is beginning to show some sort of order. It is far from finished – hundreds of shelves still stand dusty and unattended – but there are signs that it is possible.

Eldarion places the key on the desk and rummages in the top drawer until he finds what he needs, then sets off at a jog through the Library. When he reaches the hole in the floor, now covered by an old screen to lessen the risk of anyone falling down it, he pauses briefly to light a torch and then descends into the darkness.

There is something hidden down there, and Eldarion Telcontar is determined to find out what.

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One thing that Eleniel finds strange about the Princess is her propensity to talk almost constantly. Climbing the hill to the Citadel, Idril keeps up a stream of chatter – observations on the people around them, the weather, their surroundings, and stories of her own wild misadventures that she weaves effortlessly into the conversation. She is a masterful storyteller, and Eleniel finds herself giggling repeatedly at her droll anecdotes of life at Court, the petty jealousies and the harmless intrigues, and the plotting of various noble-born women to secure the affections of the Prince. She does not know the people in the stories, or if she does then it is only by rumour, but by the time they reach the stairs to the Citadel she is laughing so hard at the idiosyncrasies of Lady Denara's ill-behaved terrier that she does not notice where they are until Idril breaks off to greet the guard.

"Are we really going into the Citadel?" Eleniel asks nervously. She has only ever been in the White Courtyard on public holidays, such as in celebration of victory in battle or, seven years before, the birth of Princess Siledhel.

Idril, already halfway up the stairs, turns to look at her questioningly. "I thought we might sit somewhere out of the way. Is something wrong, or…"

"No, no, not at all," says Eleniel hurriedly, acutely aware of her heavily darned clothes and uncombed hair. Idril flashes her a sympathetic smile.

"We shall not meet many people – the law-courts are in session, and this time of day is not the most fashionable." She gives a mock-bow and presents her arm. "Come, let us enter in style!"

The Courtyard is indeed nearly empty, save the Guards around the White Tree and a few loiterers who bow to the Princess but do not speak much beyond a murmured greeting. Eleniel stares up at the Tower of Ecthelion, gleaming white against the sky, the symbol of the Kings of old, until she grows dizzy and staggers backwards; Idril, who has obligingly stopped, catches her with a laugh.

"It is impressive, is it not?" she remarks. "One day, we shall have to ask Father if we can show you the view from the top; there is a tiny balcony – you can't see it from here – and when you stand there, it feels like flying." She gives a self-conscious laugh and tugs Eleniel by the hand over to the low wall, from where they can look down on the City and the Pelennor far below, the wall of the Rammas Echor a thin line drawn on a child's landscape. This is Minas Tirith, city of Kings, greatest power east of the Sea; Eleniel feels a sudden fierce pride in her as the chill wind lifts her hair. Beside her, Idril shivers.

"Oh, I do dislike the cold! Shall we find somewhere out of the wind?"

"That would be nice," agrees Eleniel, and turns. As she tears her eyes away from the view, she sees a tall woman walking towards them, richly dressed and of considerable beauty, and looks at her companion. "Idril? – I think…"

Idril has turned, also, and Eleniel is surprised to see her eyes harden as she steps forward. "It is Celeglin," she mutters, low enough that Eleniel has to strain to catch the words. "What does she want here? – Lady Celeglin, well met." This last in a more normal tone as the lady draws near.

Seen from up close, the Lady Celeglin is even more beautiful. Her pale skin is flawless, her dark eyes and hair a startling contrast, and the cut of her dress leaves little to the imagination; the fashion is for plunging necklines and clinging cloth, this season, and for dark, rich colours. She is the epitome of sophistication, and her smile and the tilt of her chin indicate that she is perfectly aware of the fact.

"Princess," she says in response to Idril's rather cold greeting, and drops a perfect curtsey, wine-coloured velvet rustling about her. Her voice is lower than that of either Idril or Eleniel, rich and clear. "I hope I find you well?" Her gaze flickers downwards, just for an instant, over the plain woollen clothes that the Princess wears. Idril's lips tighten.

"Perfectly, I thank you. And yourself?" Gone is the smiling, chattering girl of a moment ago; Idril is every inch the Princess, meeting Lady Celeglin's gaze with a haughty stare of her own. Eleniel marvels at the icy tension between them.

"Well enough." Celeglin's smile is dazzling, but hard; her eyes are cold. "You have not been much in civilised society these past few days, your highness? And it was remarked upon this morning that the Prince…"

"We find amusement enough," says Idril smoothly. Celeglin's eyes flicker to Eleniel, who swallows hard. "I believe my brother has already informed you of our project – this is the Lady Eleniel, of the City Library; Eleniel, this is Lady Celeglin of Lebennin." Idril's tone suggests in no uncertain terms that Lady Eleniel of the City Library is equal, if not superior, to Lady Celeglin of Lebennin. The latter does not bow, but merely nods frostily; Eleniel gives her pleasantest, most meaningless smile and bows.

"I am surprised," says the lady to Idril, ignoring Eleniel completely, "that the Prince is so very engrossed in this little – project – of yours." She reaches out swiftly and catches Idril by the arm, drawing her closer, and her next words are soft, but pitched just loud enough that Eleniel hears them. "Have a care, my lady, that the Prince does not forget what he owes to Gondor. Dalliances are all very well, but this one is not so beautiful that it is worth the displeasure of King or country."

Idril shakes herself free, drawing breath to utter some furious retort, but Lady Celeglin has already turned on her heel and is walking away from them, skirts swishing across the stones, and Eleniel grabs the Princess by the arm. "Idril, no! Let her go, she can take her unpleasantness elsewhere!"

Idril gives an actual growl of frustration, spinning around and stalking to the wall. "Oh, she is the limit! She is poison itself!"

Eleniel rubs her nose, trying not to think on Celeglin's words, with their inferences that are so very dangerous. It is rare that she takes an instant dislike to anyone, but in this case, she feels justified. "I can see why you and she don't agree."

"Don't agree?" Idril laughs grimly. "We despised each other as children, and nothing has changed since then. She still makes snide comments and is the most appalling snob, and I still offend her by thwarting her attempts to become Gondor's next Queen." She turns to Eleniel, face now anxious. "Don't mind anything she says, Eleniel. It is all bitter emptiness, nothing more."

Eleniel begins to walk back across the Courtyard, glad that the brisk wind gives an excuse for her pink cheeks. "I shall forget it. Do – do you think that Prince Eldarion really would marry someone like that?"

Idril is silent for longer than Eleniel expects. Her features are troubled. Eventually she says slowly, "If he does, I shall not soon forgive him." Startled, Eleniel tries to imagine how Eldarion could possibly stand Celeglin's company; she knows his opinion of the socially ambitious. "If he was not so bound by, as our friend puts it, 'duty to king and country', then he would not entertain the idea for an instant, and – oh, it is so frustrating!" They are passing the Fountain; Idril sits down on the rim and Eleniel perches beside her. The Princess trails an idle hand in the water.

"Eldarion has Ada's gift," she continues, still more slowly than is her wont. "He can read the hearts of men. Oh, not their minds, but he is such an excellent judge of character; that's why he avoids the Court. He always says he can't stand the sycophants. But – well, he has known Celeglin since we were children, and sometimes I fear that he feels it incumbent upon him to…" she trails off and looks hopelessly at Eleniel. "He still persists in thinking our enmity a childish feud. He doesn't _want_ to think ill of her. And Eldarion Telcontar can be incredibly stubborn."

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Far beneath them, in the breathless hushed dark underneath the Library, the man in question leaps aside as several tons of steel threaten to decapitate him; he then jumps backwards hurriedly as blades whistle through the air from the other direction; they sever the length of string that he holds.

The exploring is not going quite according to plan.

He has found the lever that locks the sliding floor in place. That was relatively easy, and he decided that it might be as well to follow the passage a little way; what he was not expecting were the hidden pits and deadly, silent knives.

Eldarion curses and retreats, but he leaves the string where it is, and when he gets back to the entrance he crouches to scratch the Ranger symbol in the dust for 'danger ahead.' Idril, at least, will recognise it, and before leaving he takes careful note of the floor around it. If any new footprints disturb it, he will know.

Something catches his eye, and he looks closer. Right in the middle of the floor, something glitters gold in the torchlight. Curious, Eldarion brushes away the dirt and prises it out of the ground, bringing the torch closer to see more clearly.

It is a heavy gold pendant, of some intricate design, like to many of the symbols of Gondor's noble houses. Eldarion doesn't recognise it; he turns it over, rubbing away at the dirt. It appears to be very old. With a frown, he slips it into a pocket and brushes over the place where it had lain.

When he reaches the royal stables, which are on the opposite side of the City to the Library, he finds both his sister and Eleniel inside with the horses, and lingers in the doorway for a moment unheeded.

"…really think that we may find something?" Eleniel is asking, her tone doubtful. She is perched on a bale of hay. Idril, who is in the stall opposite with her mare, pulls a sceptical face.

"It would be lovely, wouldn't it? Oh, Eleniel, surely there is something!" A long nose nudges her in the back of the neck and she pats it absent-mindedly. "Are there no old records somewhere for your family?"

Eleniel looks down at her feet. The sunlight catches across her hair. "Maybe somewhere. I don't have them, if so. And – I cannot risk being thrown out of the house. I've no relatives..."

"We'll find the deeds," says Idril firmly, and then she sees Eldarion. "'Darion! Where _have _you been? You're covered in dirt!"

Eldarion grins ruefully. "I have been doing some exploring. Eleniel, the passages are unsafe; I followed the one that the two of you followed last time, and it reacted rather, er, violently."

"What happened?" Eleniel and Idril both speak at once, and all three of them laugh.

Eldarion explains about the lever that levels the passage, the swinging blades, and finally about the necklace in the floor. Eleniel takes it from him and examines it, but is as clueless as he.

"I don't recognise it," she says with a shrug, handing it back. "It could belong to anyone – someone could have dropped it down there, or…"

"Not a symbol of your house?" says Eldarion hopefully. "Special librarian coat-of-arms? Magic amulet to catalogue the section on Gondorian trade routes?"

"Wishful thinking, my lord," says Eleniel dryly. "I think that had we possessed such a thing, it would be a prized national treasure by now."

Eldarion offers both of them an arm, and they saunter out of the stables, deep in speculation, and coming up with increasingly wild theories for the use of the amulet. The streets are busier now, and people bow as they pass; Eldarion notes with amusement the strange looks that Eleniel receives. She appears oblivious to them, laughing with Idril and himself, and although, to Eldarion, she still looks tired, her colour is better and she seems over the fright of the morning.

He watches her as she talks, planning the afternoon's work, her eyes determined. It was a jolt, that morning, the realisation that this – this strange friendship, the timelessness of the Library, Eleniel herself in all her charming, stubborn determination – can be lost so easily, and Eldarion's jaw tightens as he thinks of Stelbin.

Briefly he contemplates wild courses of action – exposing Stelbin before the Court, challenging him, throwing him from the City – before he realises, frustrated, that there is nothing to challenge him with, no grounds for the accusations. The land belongs to Stelbin, as does the Library, and he has every right to do with it as he wills. Once again, there is nothing to accuse him of, nothing but silent witnesses and the deep, nagging suspicion of a paranoid Prince.

"My lord?" Eleniel is looking at him strangely. "Are you all right?"

Eldarion shakes himself mentally. "I'm sorry?"

Idril giggles. "Off in a daydream, 'Darion?"

"I was thinking," protests Eldarion. "It requires a great deal of effort, sister, surely you know that?"

"It is not a problem that I frequently encounter," says Idril blithely. "Eleniel and I were just agreeing that we should make a start on the right wing this afternoon."

"The wings should be more in order," adds Eleniel. "I know that my great-grandfather started to update the records under Ecthelion, though when Denethor came to power he was called away to the wars. He says in his journal that he started with the right wing, and no one has touched it since then."

"As long as you can _find_ those records, Lady Librarian," Eldarion teases her, and she narrows her eyes at him.

"Are you implying something about the way I organise my records, O Prince?"

"As if I would dare!" cries Eldarion, only partly in jest; Eleniel is sensitive in the extreme about her filing system, which he is privately convinced consists of one part organisation to three parts luck. The right papers seem to float to the top of the pile by pure coincidence. "I have a great respect for your, ah, system."

True to form, Eleniel is able to find the leather-bound book a very few minutes after lunch. Eldarion once again entertains the notion that there is a kind of magic at work, the sheer power of all the silent tomes, unread for centuries. He remembers his mother, Arwen Undomiel, her hushed voice telling tales of how the Elves first began it, and how the words took them, caught them and bound them to the world, to each other, and he remembers the utter stillness of the Library at Imladris, and a homesick boy sitting in his grandfather's chair and feeling a sense of protection, the words of his ancestors surrounding him, his own history mingling with theirs.

Then he thinks of Eleniel and smiles. It is all very well to compare her to an enchantress, to think that she wields power through the Library and that it bows to her will, but then when she drops the heavy books in a cloud of dust, curses, and sneezes six times in a row, he is forced to accept that it may not be the case, and that no enchantress would have such appallingly illegible handwriting in their ancestry.

The afternoon slips past. The right wing is in such good order – it has been centuries since anyone has added to the Library – that they agree to do no more than a cursory check of the shelves, cleaning as they go; they cover nearly half of it before Eleniel calls a halt, pointing out the lengthening shadows.

"I fear that we shall not find the other wing in such good order," she says ruefully as they say their goodbyes. "Nor the storerooms. I can't believe how much we've done today!"

"Nor I," says Idril hugging her, and then looks at her critically. "Eleniel, do go and have a good night's sleep. If you're not here in the morning then we shall start without you."

The early evening is chill. There is the promise of frost in the air, and the stars seem to hang heavy in the velvet black of the sky, pinpoints of brilliance. Idril and Eldarion take their time walking back up to the Citadel; the streets are once more empty, and they pass from starlight to shadow to the bright lights of houses in near silence. The Princess is so quiet, in fact, that Eldarion is compelled before very long to ask her if she is well.

"Oh, yes, of course," says Idril at once, flustered; glancing at her, Eldarion can see the barest hint of a frown. "I was just…"

"Thinking?" he finishes for her, and she flicks his arm. "About what?"

"Eleniel," says Idril bluntly. "I'm worried about her. She truly does fear losing the Library, Eldarion."

Eldarion sighs. "Of course she does. And whatever Stelbin's reasons for wanting her out are…"

"There is no reason," says Idril impatiently. "The man's just malicious. It's to spite you, 'Darion, this insistence that he wants her to leave. I don't think he's hiding anything other than a deep dislike of you and Ada."

"Maybe." Eldarion looks up at the stars as they turn a corner. "I just – you know how he was, when we passed that law about the brothels, and how sure we all were that he was mixed up in the thick of it…"

"Those _children_," murmurs his sister with a shudder.

"Precisely!" Eldarion runs a hand through his hair. "There were never even any charges, because we could find nothing to charge him with! Even when – oh, believe me, he is guilty of _something…_"

"If only we knew what," says Idril wryly, then she abruptly changes the subject. "We met Celeglin in the Courtyard today, you know."

"Did you? I hope you managed to be civil."

Idril's eyes flash. "'Civil' is not something that I associate with Celeglin. She was downright rude to Eleniel."

"If you did not provoke her so…" Eldarion heaves another sigh. "I think that you may have to accept that sometimes you and I differ in our opinions of people, and I…"

"Eldarion Telcontar, if you marry that woman I will _never_ speak to you again!" Idril wrenches her arm from his and fixes him with her most furious glare; surprised, Eldarion takes a step back.

"Idril, when will you grow up?" he demands, then lowers his voice. "I will marry where I must. Surely you can see that. If you must know, I consider Lady Celeglin to be far the…"

"What is wrong with you?" cries his sister. "She is the worst possible – she is the worst you could ever choose! Where is your famed judgement, Eldarion of Gondor?"

"Then who would you have me marry?" hisses Eldarion. "She is eligible. It would be an advantageous match; Lebennin would benefit. Maybe I do not love her, but I know no ill of her, and in intelligence and beauty she is far superior to the others who solicit my attentions!"

"But she is…"

"I know no ill of her," Eldarion repeats, "and as far as I can see, this silly feud between you is as much your fault as hers! If I cannot marry where I love, then I can at least marry for Gondor!"

"_Eleniel_?" gasps Idril.

There is a moment's beat of complete silence, as Eldarion becomes conscious what he has said and feels realisation slide into his heart like a stiletto knife-blade between his ribs.

"Ada would never…" begins Idril, but Eldarion stops her, the invisible wound an ache in his chest that he covers, forces away from him, forgets and denies all in a heartbeat.

"No. But I would. There are more important things than whatever my feelings might be at stake here. Let me fool myself, Idril, let me marry Celeglin, and please, understand that I do it for Gondor. Please, sister."

Idril's eyes are brimming with tears. They stand frozen in the middle of the street for a moment, and then Eldarion, with a sigh, folds her in his arms. She scrubs at her eyes with her sleeve and mutters something; Eldarion, with a frown, bends his head closer. "I'm sorry?"

"I'm not giving up, 'Dari," says Idril firmly. Her eyes are determined. "Celeglin – it's all wrong, and I refuse to believe that she has any affection for you…"

"And if I choose to believe that she loves me?"

"Then I pity you, Eldarion," says Idril softly, seriously.

Eldarion shakes his head and offers her his arm, and they proceed up the hill, to where the light and laughter and music flows from the Citadel, and leave the dark streets empty and silent once more.

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Deep underground, the weak light of a candle, and a voice says, measured and even, "There will be no more delays."

Dark eyes glitter. One flawless finger traces idly across red lips. "It is – difficult. The Princess is suspicious, and there is an added complication. The girl from the Library…"

"She will be disposed of, in due course."

"Good." The red lips curl in a smile. "He has been most – evasive."

"Have a care." A note of warning enters the voice. "We have not much longer. If he is not secured by Midwinter, more drastic measures will have to be taken, and I trust I do not have to elaborate on them."

White shoulders shrug. "It is all the same to me. Drugged and cooperative or valiant and dead – the Prince is a valuable tool, but one we can do without if needs be, am I not correct?"

"You are most correct, my dear," says the voice, with the barest hint of a smile. "Now, begone, before you are missed. I shall follow in a while."

The light flickers, and silken skirts swish across the floor. It is silent, then, until the candle leaves to the sound of soft footfalls, and complete darkness fills the innermost parts of the city, far from the light of the high cold stars.


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Thankyou, lovely people who've reviewed before!

Erm – yes, it has been a while, hasn't it? There has been homework and then there was Oxford interviews (which took up most of my brainpower for a good few weeks!) but lo, 'tis nearly Christmas and I suddenly have far less work to do…:D

Chapter Seven

Three days later, the snow arrives.

Eleniel wakes up early, and wonders for a moment or two what has happened to the light. She is used to it being dawn when she gets up, but this morning the daylight seems dimmed, and what little sky she can see through her window is a dull, heavy grey. Battleaxe is a furry ball wedged firmly beneath her chin; when Eleniel makes as if to get out of bed, two yellow eyes fix her with a reproachful glare.

"I am not merely your bed-warmer," Eleniel tells her cat, goosebumps breaking out along her bare arms as she sits up. Battleaxe unfolds herself, stretches, and then jumps down from the bed to pick her way daintily across the floor; Eleniel pulls on the warmest assortment of clothes that she can find and follows her downstairs.

When, after a breakfast that is remarkable only for its scantiness – money is running low, once more – she steps outside, she sees a world shrouded in soft white, the flakes still falling silently and persistently from the sky. The ground crunches as she walks, and all other sound is muffled; there are always wagons on the move at this hour, and they roll past like grey ghosts. Eleniel digs her hands into her pockets and entertains herself with watching shapes in the snow while she walks; she is so absorbed that she does not notice the man walking towards her until they almost collide, and he catches her arm with a laugh.

"In a daydream, Lady Librarian?"

"My lord!" Eleniel exclaims, feeling her cheeks burn and feeling like a clumsy yokel. "I'm sorry, I – "

"No matter," says Eldarion with a smile. He looks tired. "I did not expect to see you so early."

"It was cold. Besides, the snow is lovely, if rather hypnotic."

Eldarion offers her his arm. "I was up early – there was paperwork that apparently urgently needed my attention. Idril is still abed; she was very, ah, merry last night."

"The dinner went well, then?" Eleniel shivers as they round the corner into Emerald Street. Eldarion takes off his cloak and drapes it round her shoulders, ignoring her half-hearted protests. The cloak is warm and lined with fur.

"The dinner? – Oh, that went well enough. The King made an announcement about the Midwinter celebrations. I think that we shall have to drag you to the Palace before then; my mother was asking about you."

Eleniel gives him a look, and he laughs.

"Or maybe not. Come, Eleniel, if we are to prove you are the high-born descendant of noble Librarians then you will _have_ to be presented at Court!"

"I lack the necessary poise," says Eleniel firmly. "Or something. Can you imagine me in an elegant gown, dancing with princes?"

Eldarion stops short and presses a hand dramatically to his heart. "Ah, lady, you wound me! I have no elegant gown, but – " he seizes her about the waist with a wicked grin, "I can provide a prince! And _one_twothree _one_twothree…" Eleniel cannot stop herself from laughing as he waltzes her away up the street.

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Some time later that afternoon, Eleniel is on her hands and knees underneath the heavy table that sits in one of the corners of the Library when Idril says suddenly, "Eleniel, you really must come to the ball at Midwinter."

Eleniel sneezes three times in quick succession and looks up through watering eyes. She can see the Princess's feet below the edge of the table, swinging backwards and forwards; Idril has evidently decided that it is time for a breather. Eldarion is dusting shelves; she can hear him whistling in the background. "Oh yes? Idril, I am not a noblewoman!"

The feet disappear, and Idril's face appears an instant later, upside-down. Her long hair hangs straight down and brushes the floor. "But you could be, for all we know!"

Eleniel sighs crossly and gathers the loose papers she has found under the table into a pile. "Idril, you are as bad as your brother! I'm flattered that you both think so highly of me, but really…"

A strange expression passes over the Princess's face; Eleniel attributes this to the effort of hanging upside-down. "But you are our friend," she points out reasonably. "And you are the – well, you run this important centre of our heritage as a kingdom!"

"And that makes me an important person?" asks Eleniel wryly. "Would Lady Celeglin agree with you?"

Idril is opening her mouth to frame a reply when Eldarion's amused voice says, "Sister, that is very inelegant. – Eleniel, I found something interesting."

"Something interesting?" Eleniel crawls out from beneath the table. "Of the literary variety?"

Eldarion drops a big, leather-bound tome onto the table with a crash. It is clearly very old: the pages crackle as he turns them carefully, the two young women leaning over his shoulder. "Look. A record of heraldries, going right back to the time of Elendil! All the noble houses are in here!"

"Well." Eleniel reaches out and fingers a yellowed page. The illustrations are faded, but the designs they form are beautifully drawn: a stylised swan, a running deer, a single star above a perfect flower, the petals so lifelike that she feels she should be able to reach out and stroke them. "It's _beautiful_."

"So many treasures," says Eldarion in hushed tones, turning the page reverently. His eyes are shining.

"Father will want to see this," says Idril, running her fingers over the shape of a leaping hare. "And – oh, Eldarion, you could try and match that locket you found with the symbols in here!"

"Must you always steal my thunder, little sister?" Eldarion closes the book carefully and hands it to Eleniel. "Lady Librarian, I should like to make a withdrawal. I believe the standard loan length is two weeks?"

Eleniel grins up at him. "It is indeed," she says with mock solemnity. "If you would like to proceed with me to the desk so that I may enter your withdrawal in the records, sir?"

Once back at her desk, Eleniel issues the first withdrawal with a great deal of aplomb, allowing the Prince to sign his name in flowing script across the crisp new page and reading the Library Regulations to him in the most dramatic fashion possible. Eldarion stands solemnly at attention in front of the desk throughout, while Idril sniggers behind him.

"…and Regulation Forty-one, as laid down by Lord Drusus the Archivist; that no man, woman or other sentient being shall in any way use the property of this most illustrious Library for any nefarious purpose. This shall be punishable by a ban from the Library forthwith. Regulation Forty-two, as laid down by Lord Drusus the Archivist; that no man, woman or other sentient being shall remove the Items in this Library without the knowledge of the Librarian. This shall be punishable by the distribution of that person's estate as the King sees fit." Eleniel closes the book with a snap and narrows her eyes at Eldarion. "The fine is fixed currently at the rate of, oh, a forfeit to be decided by the Librarian, which is likely to change without notice."

"So if 'Darion runs off with a book he hasn't signed for, he has to give everything away?" asks Idril with a wicked grin. "Remember me when you are forced to part with Bragosul, brother."

"I am infinitely more worried about our Lady Librarian's forfeit." Eldarion places the book carefully on the desk. "Shall we take a break, Eleniel?"

"Yes, I think." Eleniel glances out of the window; the snow is falling more slowly now. "Outside?"

"I love the snow," sighs Idril happily, gathering up her cloak and flinging it around her shoulders. Eldarion silently hands his cloak to Eleniel with a raised eyebrow that dares her to protest; knowing herself beaten, she accepts it gratefully.

As they climb the stairs, the shouts and laughter of children reaches their ears. Idril tugs her hood over her head, partially hiding her face, and they emerge into a whirlwind of flying snowballs.

Eleniel squeaks and ducks as a badly-aimed snowball hurtles towards her; it hits Eldarion instead, and the small grubby girl who has thrown it giggles maniacally and runs in the other direction. A richly dressed boy chases after her, ignoring the rather feeble admonitions of a couple, clearly his parents, standing in the doorway of the house opposite the Library.

Trying to walk in sensible fashion along the street proves impossible. Soon Eleniel, Idril and Eldarion are part of the battle, which quickly turns into a full-scale war. Eldarion and Eleniel end up crouching behind a temporary barricade of snow, the former roaring orders at a delighted impromptu army, while Idril helps the smaller children build a snowman. They all lose track of time long before the light starts to fade and parents begin to call more insistently for their offspring to come indoors; when Eldarion's army and opposition consists of only a few children from the lower levels, he negotiates a truce between the two sides and sends them off to their homes.

Idril looks up from her snowman as her brother and her friend stagger towards her. "Did you win?"

Eleniel flops down in the snow. "It was a truce."

"And if ever I need a really efficient army, I know where to look." Eldarion collapses beside her. "No questioning of commands, ingenuity without recklessness…"

"And to think, they probably dream of fighting alongside the Captain of the White tower," says Idril with a laugh. "We really should be getting home, brother. It is quite late."

"So it is." Eldarion clambers to his feet, and then offers Eleniel his hand, which feels warm around hers as he hauls her to her feet. "Idril, I think it best if you take the passage back to the palace."

"What about you?"

"I shall walk Eleniel home. The streets are dangerous in this weather, and the snow is falling more heavily now." As if to emphasise this, a gust of chill wind suddenly brings snow eddying around them.

"But I can find my way home," protests Eleniel. "It isn't dark yet…"

"It soon will be," says the Prince firmly, and looking at the western sky Eleniel reluctantly concedes that he is right. A bell rings out from the Citadel.

"Dinner-time," says Idril with a grin. "No fancy banquets tonight, thank the Valar. A quiet and civilised family dinner." She takes a step backwards, slips, and lands in a snowdrift.

Eleniel and Eldarion pull her up again, and as they do so the muffled sound of horse-hooves reaches Eleniel's ears; she turns as Idril exclaims under her breath, "Celeglin! – And with Lord Stelbin, no less!"

"Idril," says Eldarion warningly, and turns to bow to the riders. "My Lady Celeglin, Lord Stelbin, good evening."

"Prince Eldarion!" Celeglin, wrapped in white furs, gives a dazzling smile and dismounts, landing lightly in the snow. "Why, we were just at the Palace, hoping to find you there."

"I am honoured," says Eldarion quietly. Eleniel glances sideways at him; the Heir's polite, distant mask is back, and she finds herself unable to read his expression.

"Princess." Celeglin raises an eyebrow and curtseys formally; Idril inclines her head stiffly. "I must confess – I had not expected to find the daughter of Undomiel grubbing around in the snow with a commoner." Her laugher rings out in the empty street.

Idril bristles, and Eleniel kicks her surreptitiously in the ankle.

"I believe this is the girl from the Library," says Stelbin, a strange smile hovering around his lips as he leans forwards. "Eleniel, isn't it? Did you know, girl, that I intend to have that ruin knocked down after Midwinter?"

Eleniel finds her voice. "I was aware, sir." The lazy amusement in Celeglin's eyes prompts her to add, "but intentions are open to – other influences, are they not?"

Stelbin frowns sharply. "Watch that tongue of yours, girl. My Lord Prince, you're wasting your time here. Good day." He nudges his horse and carries on down the street.

Celeglin watches him go, then turns back to the others with a laugh. "So dramatic! Tell me – Eleniel, wasn't it? Shall you find work in the city? But wait, I lack a scullery-maid at present; would you be interested?" Her tone is mocking.

Eleniel decides to give as good as she gets. "Not at all, my lady. Would you be interested in dusting some shelves?"

Eldarion puts his hand over his eyes. Idril looks delighted.

"You presume too much," says Celeglin coldly, "on your – acquaintance – with his Royal Highness."

"And you presume too much, my _lady_, if you believe that such superiority as mere birth and wealth gives you the right to neglect common courtesy!" snaps Eleniel.

"How dare you, you little whore!" hisses Celeglin, taking a step forwards, and Eldarion's head jerks up. "You have no right, absolutely none, to…"

Eleniel glares at her. "I have every right. You are trespassing." Celeglin, surprised, looks down; she stands under the archway, just inside the gate. "Whilst you continue to stand in the grounds of this building, I shall talk to you as I please!"

"Why you…" Celeglin breaks off as Eldarion suddenly grasps her firmly by the arm and marches her out of the gate. "Oh! Sire, I…"

"Eleniel, will you please go inside?" Eldarion says pleasantly. "Lady Celeglin and I have a few matters to discuss."

Eleniel turns and walks inside, her ears ringing. Unseeingly she makes her way down the uneven stairs, one hand trailing along the wall, and when she emerges into the foyer she sits down on the nearest chair with great care, folding her hands in her lap.

"It's _my_ Library," she says aloud, angrily, and is unable to stop a lump rising in her throat and the sob that follows.

Idril comes running down the stairs. "Eleniel? Oh, don't cry!" She wraps her friend in a fierce hug, and Eleniel clings to her gratefully, the tears coming faster the more she tries to suppress them.

"I'm not g-going to be able to stop L-lord Stelbin from knocking it down! And El-d-darion'll marry Celeglin and I _hate_ her and Taeglin won't c-come home and it'll all be for _nothing _and…"

"That's all nonsense," says the Princess matter-of-factly, fishing out a handkerchief and offering it to Eleniel. "Eleniel, none of that's going to happen. Do you think that we would let you be without a home? And the fight's not over for the Library! If we can find the deeds then…"

"We'll never find the d-deeds! It – it's impossible, the Library's too big, it…"

"We _will_ find them." Idril pulls back and looks at Eleniel seriously. Eleniel scrubs at her eyes, and Idril rubs her shoulder sympathetically. "You know, you look truly awful when you're crying."

"S-so does everyone."

"Elves don't," says Idril wryly. "And neither does Celeglin." She smiles dreamily. "They are having a _terrific_ row."

"Eldarion and Celeglin?" asks Eleniel rather stuffily through the beginning of a headache.

"It's beautiful," sighs Idril happily.

Footsteps sound on the stairs, and Eldarion appears round the corner. "Eleniel?" He looks both tired and anxious. "Eleniel, she didn't mean…"

"Didn't _mean_ it?" Idril is on her feet, eyes blazing. "'Darion, how can you _say_ that!"

"She has asked me to convey her sincerest apologies to you, Eleniel, and to tell you that she jumped to conclusions wrongly." Eldarion ignores his sister and crouches down in front of Eleniel, meeting her eyes pleadingly. Eleniel, confused, looks down at him.

"Do you really – do you really think that? That she – was just mistaken?"

Eldarion looks utterly wretched for a second. "I have her word."

Eleniel leans back in the chair, suddenly tired beyond all measure. There is some deeper level to this – Idril's anger, Eldarion's resolute refusal to believe ill of Celeglin – that she cannot fathom, and she wants nothing more than to be at home and curled up in front of the fire with Battleaxe.

"I'm going," says Idril tightly, and brushes past the Prince to hug Eleniel. "Eleniel, try not to worry; Stelbin's a pig and Celeglin's not even worth thinking about. Brother, you and I will talk later." She sweeps off towards the passage and out of sight.

Eldarion quietly helps Eleniel to tidy things away in the Library, stowing the records on the newly-cleaned shelves behind the desk and the ink and quills in the drawers. It is getting difficult to see by the time they finish, and they take one of the old lanterns from the store-cupboard before they leave. Once outside, it casts a yellow glow around them, catching on the silent snow as it falls.

"Will you come tomorrow?" asks Eleniel tiredly as they make their way slowly along the street. Eldarion nods.

"Yes, we will. I – Eleniel, truly, would you mind if I brought the Queen to see you, provided the snow has stopped?"

"I'd be honoured, but – but not anything _official_, please, my lord."

"Nothing of the kind, I promise you." Eldarion catches her arm as they reach the sloping corner. "Watch your step."

Eleniel obediently pays attention to where she puts her feet. The packed snow is slippery; water has run down around the corner and turned to ice.

They are both silent for the rest of the walk. Eleniel resolutely does not look at Eldarion as they draw near her house; she does not want to see the look on his face as they pass the run-down buildings and tattered shop-fronts. When they reach her house, she turns to face him almost defiantly, mutely daring him to comment on the warped, shabby door and the broken window covered with an old sheet.

He does not comment, merely looks at her for a long moment before stepping forwards and briefly embracing her. "Goodnight, Eleniel. As Idril said, try not to worry. We still have time – think how much we've already accomplished!" He kisses her hand, smiles at her rather forcedly, and then melts back into the snowy night, the dim lantern soon lost to view.

Eleniel lets herself in and tugs the door shut behind her; the wood has warped from the wet weather and it does not close all the way. She does not see the dark figures that move away silently when she has shut the door, following the Prince up the hill to the Citadel.

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In her warm, fire lit room, Idril, Princess of Gondor, sits on her bed staring moodily at the wall. When someone knocks on the door, she does not move; nor does her head turn when it creaks open and a tall, thin figure slips inside.

"Idril?" Princess Lhachel, the firelight catching on her red-gold hair, advances cautiously. "Idril, it's dinnertime. Is something wrong?"

Idril glances at her younger sister. Reluctantly, she smiles, and shifts aside on the bed to make room; Lhachel sits beside her. "No, I – nothing."

"I do wish that you would not argue with 'Darion," says Lhachel seriously.

Idril wraps her arms around her knees. "We just have our differences, sometimes."

"Celeglin," says Lhachel wisely. "Has she been mooning after him again?"

Idril stares at her sister, and for a moment considers telling her about their brother's declaration that he will marry Celeglin; Lhachel, despite being barely fourteen years of age, understands Eldarion better than any of them. She pushes the thought aside out of respect for his privacy. "Yes – yes, she has. She came to the Library."

"Will you take me there?" asks Lhachel at once, eyes shining, and Idril hides a smile.

"When you are fully recovered from that awful chill! It is very cold and dusty…"

"But think of all the _books_," says Lhachel with a dreamy sigh. Idril laughs and hugs the thin shoulders, resting her cheek on the shining head of hair, which falls in gleaming waves nearly down to Lhachel's waist. "And I want to meet Eleniel," she continues, slightly muffled. "She sounds nice."

"You would like her," agrees Idril.

"It's so romantic! You and Eldarion having to hunt for the deeds so that she doesn't lose the Library, and Stelbin the villain of the piece wanting to knock it down, and secret passages and…"

"You have a strange idea of romance," says a fresh voice from the doorway. Eldarion smiles at them both a little awkwardly. "Dinner is ready, I think."

Idril stares at him, and notices both the shadows beneath his eyes and the way he leans on the doorframe. She swallows whatever comment she had ready and follows him and Lhachel out of the room, drawing the door closed behind her.

The fire flickers. A shadow detaches itself from the corner and moves to the window on silent feet; it has nearly reached it when the door swings open again. It drops to the floor behind the bed.

Eldarion enters, candle in one hand, eyes wary. One hand holds a dagger, and he moves as silently as the shadow. Heghosts into the middle of the room and stands there, listening.

The wind whistles outside the window. The shadow holds its breath.

Eldarion shakes his head as though to clear it. "Nothing," he murmurs to himself. "Then what did I…"

"'Dari! Are you coming?" Idril's voice echoes back along the corridor outside. "Come, brother, or we will be late again!"

Eldarion rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand and frowns. "Nothing," he repeats to himself, and leaves as noiselessly as he entered.

The shadow breathes again, and departs with a swirl of cold wind. The window closes with barely a click.

The Palace is shrouded in white, and no one sees the dark shapes through the whirling snow as they go about their business, silent messengers from window to window. The Royal family are being watched.


	9. Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Thankyou, lovely people who've reviewed before!

Christmas? Hectic? Mad relatives? Surely not! Must go and do some English essays now. Argh. Homework. (Hint: reading reviews is more fun…) Hope you all had a lovely Christmas!

Chapter Eight

Eldarion has never before realised just how insistent a woman bent on marriage can get.

When he steps out of the Palace that morning, he is instantly met by a vision in scarlet and blue silk; Celeglin, her smile as dazzling as the snow, drops into a low curtsey, looking up at him through her lashes. "My lord Prince."

"My lady Celeglin," replies Eldarion evenly, bowing over her hand. "It is a pleasure to see you this early in the morning."

Celeglin's brilliantly white teeth dazzle him once more. "Oh, I do love to rise early and hear the birds sing. Sometimes I try to join them, but I fear my singing is far less tuneful!" She laughs, and Eldarion murmurs the expected compliment; he is rewarded by her hand on his arm as they walk out into the Courtyard.

"Where are you going this early, my lord?"

"To the Library," Eldarion replies blandly, and this evidently displeases the lady, for she frowns and they walk on in silence.

They have reached the Sixth Circle before she says airily, "Shall you find that girl – Eleniel – employment at the Palace when the Library is demolished? I am sure you do not mean to abandon her. If not, do try to impress upon her that I meant what I said about needing a maid."

Eldarion wills himself not to react. "I fear, my lady, that Eleniel would make a very poor scullery-maid," he says wryly.

Celeglin glances up at him. "Of course. I have seen for myself just how rude and uncouth the girl can be. Tell me, does she put on so many airs with you?"

"I have never known Eleniel to put on airs of any kind," says Eldarion rather more sharply than he intends, and Celeglin laughs that annoyingly perfect laugh again.

"Of course, I had almost forgotten your – well, I think we may call it an infatuation, may we not, my lord?"

"I would rather we called it nothing of the kind." There are times when Eldarion sympathises with his sister and her dislike of Celeglin; the lady has, on occasion, a sharp tongue.

"Well, have a care, your highness," says Celeglin, her tone mock-serious, "or she may ensnare you with her wiles – goodness, there she is. Doesn't she look a fright!"

Eldarion looks up. Eleniel is on the opposite side of the street, and has clearly not seen them; she is just rounding the corner, huddled up in a motley assortment of clothes. The thick boots she wears can only have belonged to her father. Eldarion watches as she dodges around a group of well-dressed young men who do not so much as glance at her, and wonders if it is only he who finds her beautiful.

"Why, she looks like a little peasant-girl from Dunland," exclaims Celeglin in a voice that is just loud enough for Eleniel to hear. Luckily, it does not look like Eleniel is listening. "Must you really go to the Library today, my lord? There is a skating party later, and surely…"

"I have sworn to help, and I do not break my word," says Eldarion shortly, still watching Eleniel.

Celeglin then makes the biggest mistake possible. "Yes, but only to a grubby girl from the lower levels! Come, my lord, you are much missed in court, and people are starting to talk. This dalliance with a commoner does not become you, and oaths to such people mean nothing."

Ahead of them, Eleniel looks around, and Eldarion realises that she is close enough to hear every word. Something in her eyes catches his, something entirely too much like misery, and suddenly Eldarion Telcontar hates himself, and he wheels on Celeglin, saying furiously, "Lady Celeglin, if you ever insult my honour or that of my friends in this way again, then it shall be an end to all civility between us, do I make myself clear?"

Celeglin blinks and laughs, only momentarily discomfited. "Oh, my lord, did we not have this conversation last night?"

"Last night?" Eldarion stares at her, remembering her tears and promises of the night before, and aware that Eleniel is standing still as stone a few feet away. His heart beats wildly. "We – so we did. By all the Valar, Celeglin, I – go. Get out of my sight." She takes a step backwards, blood draining from her face.

"My lord Prince! I…"

"I think you know in what regard I have held you," Eldarion tells her calmly, ignoring the growing crowd of curious onlookers. It will be all over the city within an hour, what he is about to say. "I think you know with what feelings I have tried to endure you, for Gondor, for the good of the country, always trying to believe that Idril was wrong about you, that your vices were merely the thoughtlessness of high-bred arrogance. I give in. I, Eldarion, Prince of the Reunited Kingdom, concede defeat, and so must you."

Celeglin looks around wildly. Eldarion watches her, really watches her for the first time in a long time, and sees the calculated desperation in her face as she flings herself down on her knees at his feet. "Oh, no, my lord! Surely – I speak my mind, but can you not forgive – for _love_…"

"I said nothing about love." Eldarion turns and starts to walk away; the crowd parts to let him through. Behind him, Celeglin staggers to her feet.

"Enjoy her, then, your dirty little whore!" she yells, and her beautiful voice is so twisted by rage that it is virtually unrecognisable. Eldarion keeps walking. "You will be sorry, Eldarion Telcontar!"

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Eleniel, transfixed, watches the screaming Celeglin for a moment, then breaks away from the crowd to follow Eldarion at a run. He is moving swiftly, and it takes her a few minutes to catch up with him; when she does, she slows down beside him, not quite knowing what to say.

Eldarion looks down at her. He is frowning slightly, but gives her a rueful smile. "Eleniel, I am sorry that you were caught up in that."

Eleniel bites her lip. "I – it – it was no fault of yours, my lord."

"Was it not?" Eldarion glances at her again, and there is something in his eyes that she cannot quite define. "All the same, I apologise, both for just now and for last night."

"It is forgotten," says Eleniel firmly. "Though I am most glad that you and Idril will no longer be at each other's throats."

Eldarion looks remorseful. "Eleniel, I have been a self-centred pig."

"Now you are fishing for compliments."

"Are you maligning my heartfelt apologies, Lady Librarian?" he demands with the beginnings of a grin. "I shall be a self-centred pig if I wish."

"If you are ever in danger of being such, I shall inform you in no uncertain terms, my lord."

Eldarion shakes his head. "I have no doubt of it."

When they reach the Library, Idril is there waiting for them. Eleniel whispers urgently to her as they pick up the records what has happened, and it is a mark of Idril's character that she does not so much as mention it to Eldarion, merely wraps her arms round him briefly; he ruffles her hair, and they speak no more of it.

"'Darion, Naneth wishes to come down just before lunch," announces Idril a little later, armed with a duster and zealously dusting the shelves at the end of the right wing. Eldarion follows behind with a broom, and Eleniel ticks off the books from the catalogue. Very occasionally they have to stop and correct it when a book appears either missing or in the wrong place, but this wing has proved virtually untouched.

"Then I shall have to leave in a while," says Eldarion, coughing and waving a hand to dispel the flying clouds of dust. "Really, Idril, must you be quite so vigorous?"

"Right. Time for a change." Eleniel snatches the duster from the Princess, and dumps the records in her arms, then exchanges duster for broom.

"I could check the records," says Eldarion plaintively.

"No, because it is not your turn," says Idril primly. Both she and Eleniel laugh at Eldarion's mournful sigh; he has a tendency, when checking the records, to get left behind, having discovered some rare volume or other.

"My writing is neater than either of yours," grumbles the Prince, flicking at the spaces between the books. "I could go and fetch the Queen now, if you like."

"We can finish this stack first," says Eleniel inexorably, and they work in silence until Eldarion stops dead at the end of the row with an exclamation of surprise.

"We've finished the whole wing! – Eleniel, do you realise we have completed nearly two thirds of the Library?"

Eleniel leans the broom against the shelf and looks around. The sun catches on the newly cleaned shelves, giving the old wood a warm glow; the right wing looks as good as new. "There's still the gallery," she points out, smiling at both her friends. "And there's the left wing, and after that we have to find the storerooms…"

"I was being optimistic!"

"Now, children." Idril pokes her brother in the arm. "Eldarion, will you go and fetch the Queen?"

While the Prince is gone, Idril demands a full explanation of the morning's events. "I cannot believe I missed it!" she groans when Eleniel, not without a degree of satisfaction, tells her of Eldarion losing his temper. "I have been waiting for that moment all of my adult life, and it seems most of my childhood as well – oh, I am glad, Eleniel!"

"It was truly glorious," sighs Eleniel, swinging her legs over the arm of her chair.

"But she said all those awful things about you, in front of all those people!"

"None of them know me," says Eleniel with a shrug. "I don't believe she even said my name. I think it is the Prince's reputation that will be at stake, not mine."

Idril shakes her head. "No, I do not believe the people will ever think ill of Eldarion. People at court – like that odious Stelbin – may murmur behind his back, but it will get them nowhere."

"I am glad that we need not tolerate Celeglin any more." Eleniel rests her head on the rough material of the armchair, allowing herself a private smile. She has tried her best to forget Celeglin's comments, knowing that most of them have no substance, but for some reason the look in Eldarion's eyes as he leapt to her defence sends warm shivers through her.

"I am glad that she will not end up as my sister-in-law, queen of Gondor!" Idril exclaims, shaking out her long hair and twisting it into a knot at the back of her head. Eleniel looks at her curiously.

"What of you, Idril? Surely you must be as courted by young men as Eld – the Prince is by women."

Idril makes a face. "Yes, but they are all terribly dull. The only one who has ever had any conversation to speak of is Elboron – the Steward's son, you know. But when I fall in love it will be all fire and passion and undying devotion, like Beren and Luthien."

"Goodness," remarks Eleniel. "How uncomfortable."

There is a murmur of voices, and both of them look round at the stairs. Eleniel stands hastily, smoothing out her skirts. It sounds as though Eldarion has brought more than one person; footsteps clatter and a little girl, dressed all in blue, hurtles into the foyer.

"Idril! Idril! Is this the Library? – Oh, it's _huge_!" The girl stops in her tracks and gazes around in obvious delight. She is about eight or nine years of age, but there is such a marked resemblance to Eldarion in her face that no one could mistake them for anything other than brother and sister. Her raven hair is escaping from its plaits and her cheeks are flushed from the cold.

"Eleniel, my youngest sister," says Idril gravely. "Siledhel, this is Eleniel."

The youngest princess spins around to fix Eleniel with a delighted smile, holding out her hand to shake. Eleniel takes it, curtseying as she does so. "Oh, at last! I've been longing to come here and meet you, see all the books, and 'Dari says there're secret passages and all kinds of things!"

"There are, my lady, but I fear they are unsafe at present," says Eleniel with a smile.

"Unsafe, and you would likely lose your head, if my experience is anything to go by," says Eldarion from behind them. Eleniel turns, and her heart skips a beat.

Queen Arwen Evenstar glides down the stairs on her son's arm. She is almost as tall as he, but slender as a willow-wand, and the few silver streaks that are threaded through her hair do not mar her beauty; the wisdom of the ages is in her eyes.

"Mother, this is Eleniel," says Eldarion. "Eleniel, the Queen."

Eleniel, wondering frantically why the Queen is so much more terrifying than her husband, curtseys once more, trying not to wobble. "Your majesty."

A firm but kind hand lifts her chin, and Eleniel finds herself staring into eyes that seem as bottomless as the sea. She holds her breath, trying not to flinch, and feeling impossibly young. Eventually Arwen smiles, a smile every bit as dazzling as her son's. "I am honoured, Librarian. My family speaks well of you." Her gaze shifts, taking in the Library, and Eleniel breathes again. "I am most impressed."

"As are we all." Eldarion looks down at Siledhel, who is tugging on his sleeve. "What is it, little star?"

"Can we see the secret passages? _Please,_ Eldarion?"

"You shall see the entrance, and if you like we shall go home by one, but the biggest ones are unsafe." Eldarion grins at Eleniel. "Are they not, Lady Librarian?"

Before long, Eleniel finds herself conducting a guided tour of the Library, aided and abetted by Eldarion and Idril. The Queen asks intelligent questions, and tells Eleniel of the library at Imladris, where scrolls reaching back as far as the First Age are still kept; Elessar is planning to move them to Gondor, as the House of Elrond grows ever more isolated.

"We could move them here," suggests Idril at this point.

Arwen, to Eleniel's surprise, agrees with her. "Yes, we could – Ada always intended the library at Imladris to be open to all who wished to see it. Would this be agreeable to you, Eleniel?"

"It – it would be wonderful, but – but it is likely that there will soon not be a Library, your majesty."

"Ah, yes." The Queen runs one slender white finger down the spine of a book. "Lord Stelbin himself has informed me of his plans." She looks Eleniel directly in the eyes. "Let us hope that they come to nothing."

"We are not intending to give up without a considerable fight," says Eldarion firmly, "but until he formally announces his plans we can do nothing. I am afraid that we have not found any deeds to the place yet."

"There is still hope," says Arwen softly, then she smiles brightly. "My dears, it must be getting late – we must go to greet the new arrivals this evening."

Siledhel looks up at Eleniel. "Elboron is returning from the North," she informs her. "'Dari wants to see him for news of the army and Idril wants to see him so that she can keep him to herself all evening."

"You little horror," says Idril fondly.

As they emerge from the shelves, the Queen looks up and gives an exclamation of surprise. "Why, there is a gallery!"

"There is, my lady, but we cannot reach it; the stairs are gone," Eleniel explains.

"Then they must be repaired! I shall send some men down – would tomorrow morning be convenient, Eleniel?"

"But – but I thought the Council – I mean, thank you, your majesty, but the King said…"

Arwen smiles; her expression is, for an instant, almost smug. "Ah yes, but as Queen I can give you the help as a gift from the Crown. Estel is treading as carefully as possible with the City Council at present; I have no such worries – is that not right, Eldarion?"

"Father treads carefully because he is worried, mother. There is something brewing, we believe." Eldarion smiles at Eleniel. "Don't worry, Lady Librarian, they cannot oppose the Queen."

"I would watch any such attempts with great interest," says Arwen serenely. "Eleniel, we really must take our leave, I fear. I shall send men down as soon as possible in the morning. It was a pleasure – oh, where is that child of mine?"

"Hiding," says Eldarion cheerfully, darting sideways; there is a squeal and Siledhel emerges from one of the aisles.

"Oh, 'Darion, why do you _always_ know?" she demands as the others laugh.

"Because I am infinitely wiser than you, and far more observant." Eldarion reaches out and grasps the end of one of her long plaits. "Hah! A leash!"

Amidst much giggling and laughter from all concerned, they take their leave. It is early yet, but Eleniel dissuades her friends from coming back to do more work that evening; wains are expected with Elboron, and she is hopeful of finding a letter from Taeglin and writing a reply. As she tidies up the desk and puts the records back in their proper places, she wonders what she will write of. Secret passages and mysterious lockets? Prince Eldarion's eventful love life? She has told him virtually nothing of her new friends.

It is still light when she reaches home, and after feeding Battleaxe she goes next door to see if any messages have been left; Drietal at the Dancing Southron seems to know any news or gossip in the City. When she pokes her head around the door, he roars out a welcome and Andralen insists on feeding her before she can get a word in edgeways.

"There is word that wains have arrived," that worthy lady informs her, watching Eleniel eat with a protective air. "Mayhap they bring news of your brother. Eat it all, girl, those cheeks of yours are far too thin and pale."

"Thankyou, Andralen," says Eleniel dutifully, taking another mouthful of scaldingly hot soup and wincing as she burns her tongue. "Er – may I come and work tonight?"

Andralen frowns. "Money running low again? Of course, taxes is due any day now – oh, lass, I'm sorry, but we've got a new maid working here full-time. Used to be scullery-maid to some fancy lady up at court."

"I could come and sweep the floor," says Eleniel desperately. The question of money has been nagging at her; Taeglin's army pay is mostly spent on food, and she always relies on a few weeks' work at the inn to pay the taxes.

Andralen leans across the bar to poke her husband in the arm. "Drietal! The girl here wants work."

Drietal turns obediently, his brow creasing. "I am sorry, Eleniel, the new girl does all the washin' up. Ye could sweep the floors, but I doubt we could find much in the way of coin to pay you, and 'twould not take you long."

Eleniel grins at him "It's all right, Drietal, anything's better than nothing. I'd like to see what the wains have brought from the North first, though, if I may?"

Andralen pats her hand. "Of course it is, dear. I'm only sorry we can't do more. It's not right, a young lady of learning like yourself begging for a job."

"Taeglin may be home before very much longer, and times will be easier," says Eleniel, slipping down from her seat. "It's been five years since he was last on leave – many thanks for the food, Andralen, I shall see you a little later!"

Eleniel slips back into her own house for an instant to collect her cat. Battleaxe regards her through narrowed eyes. Eleniel picks her up; the cat is skinnier than she would like. "Come one, you lazy feline, you've not been outside all day," Eleniel tells her, tugging the door closed and walking away down the street. Battleaxe shoves a cold nose under her chin.

The walk down to the Fourth Circle is a brisk one; there are not many people about, and the air is crisp. Eleniel lets Battleaxe walk most of the way; she is reasonably confident that the cat will not take it into her head to go off without her, but has an old rage and a bit of string for a leash just in case. For the most part Battleaxe trots along behind her, gaining them some amused smiles from people who pass them in the street.

The lower levels are busier; it is market-day, and the smell of roasting chestnuts fills the air. Eleniel picks up her cat once they reach the Fourth Circle and threads her way through to Central Square, where a crowd has gathered about the messengers from the armies and the wains that have accompanied them.

"…looks like being a peaceful winter, apart from those few skirmishes reported right up on the border," one man is saying. He is dressed in chain-mail, well-made but worn, and his horse is slurping noisily from the trough nearby. A few others are gathered round him. "The scouts say that the garrison is well-supplied, though the report will doubtless tell us more."

"Will the troops be soon sent home, think you?" asks another man curiously. "There are men that can be pulled out of Umbar to guard the Northern borders."

"That is in the hands of the King," says the first man cheerfully. "I intend to cease all serious thought from this moment onwards, gentlemen, and enjoy the merry-making. Good day to you!"

Eleniel moves on, and by dint of shoving reaches the front of the crowd. "Eleniel daughter of Serion, Fifth Circle!" she yells at the man who stands beside the mailbags, holding a scroll on which is written the names of those to whom letters have been sent.

He runs a practiced eye down the list. "Nothing, sorry," he tells her. "Next!"

"Nothing?" asks Eleniel, a sick feeling settling in her stomach, and is knocked out of the way by the next in line. She loses her balance and slips on the packed snow; Battleaxe, spooked, hisses and darts away from her, the leash trailing uselessly in the snow.

"Battleaxe! Oh, you silly animal!" Eleniel scrambles upright and runs after her, but Battleaxe can move fast when she wants to and she can see no sign of her. Eleniel crouches down and peers through the legs of the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of grey fur, and is just resigning herself to an evening of searching when someone clears their throat above her.

"I believe that this is your cat, my lady. Would you like to claim her?"

Eleniel looks up in surprise. The young man whose conversation she overheard stands there, holding the reins of his horse in one hand and a disgruntled Battleaxe in the other. "Oh! Many thanks, sir."

"Not at all." The man helps her to her feet and looks at her curiously. "Are you quite well? You look rather pale."

"I am well, I thank you." Eleniel cradles Battleaxe against her, trying to dispel the gnawing fear within; Taeglin always writes, _always_.

"Not bad news?" persists the man. His blue eyes are friendly and concerned. "Are you sure you are not ill?"

"No news, and I am in perfect health, thank you," Eleniel replies with a little smile. "Good day to you, sir."

"A pleasure." He bows and leads the horse away through the crowd; Eleniel begins the walk back up the hill. Andralen and Drietal will be waiting.

Back at the inn, there are more customers; the bar has been reclaimed by the regulars, who greet Eleniel pleasantly enough and offer to buy her ale. She declines, and reports to Drietal, who tells her that she can be a barmaid for the evening as they appear to have more customers than is usual. To Eleniel, the inn looks no busier than normal, but she merely thanks her friends and gets to work.

The evening wears on. Eleniel makes the acquaintance of the new barmaid, who gives the impression of looking down her nose at the whole world, and absorbs some of the local gossip. The customers grow fewer as the hour grows later, so that by the time Drietal calls her off-duty there are only a few determined souls left drowning their sorrows and a cloaked and hooded man in the corner who has nursed the same tankard of ale all evening.

Eleniel collapses gratefully beside the bar. Drietal pours her something from one of his mysterious bottles and makes her drink it. "You look worn out," he says, leaning on the counter and watching her with beady black eyes.

"Working all day," says Eleniel with a yawn. Meeting the Queen seems as though it is a lifetime ago. "I can't thank you and Andralen enough, Drietal, really."

Drietal shakes his head. "We can pay you little enough, lass." He shoves a clinking purse across the counter.

Footsteps sound behind Eleniel, and she turns wearily to see the hooded man who has sat in the corner for most of the evening. Drietal nods at him. "Calling it a night, sir?"

"I think so." The man's face is almost completely hidden by his hood; Eleniel can just make out a nose and the gleam of eyes. "Do you work here often, miss?"

Eleniel blinks. "Occasionally, sir. When taxes are due, mostly."

"I see." The stranger slides some coins across the bar to Drietal. "Have you no family?"

"Only my brother," says Eleniel, the sick feeling returning as she remembers; for the first time in almost five years, no letter… "He's in the North, with the army."

"Was there a letter, Eleniel?" asks Drietal.

Eleniel looks down. "No. And he always, _always_ writes."

Behind her, the stranger draws breath sharply. Drietal says mildly, "He missed the baggage-trains, perhaps."

"Perhaps. Let us hope that it is so." The stranger looks around, to where Emeren, the new maid, is wiping a table. His voice, when he next speaks, is low. "Tell me – Drietal, isn't it? – did the other young lady once work in one of the houses in Sixth Circle?"

"She did," says Drietal, evidently confused by this interest in his barmaids. "Some lady at court – let me see, what was the name…"

"Lady Celeglin?"

This time it is Eleniel's turn to stifle a gasp. The hooded man draws back and looks at her, his eyes glinting in the light from the fire.

"Watch your back, my lady. A woman spurned will go to any lengths for revenge." With that he is gone, moving with long strides out of the firelit room and pulling the door gently closed behind him.

Eleniel stares after him, a chill running down her spine, suddenly dreading the cold walk home and the lonely shadows of her darkened house; it strikes her, with all the force of sudden fear, that she has made her first real enemy.


	10. Chapter Nine

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Thankyou, lovely people who've reviewed before!

At last, an update (Indigo-Moon, the puppy-dog eyes are most effective, lol)! Sorry it's been so long – I've been ill, for starters, and I had an evil exam from hell, and – yes, well, it's not been a good month. I promise that I will not give up on this fic; it's a matter of finding time to work on it at the moment, but don't panic, I have a plan, and I shall stick to it :D

Chapter Nine

Eldarion does not sleep much that night. He lies awake into the small hours, tossing and turning, the day's events racing through his mind. Eleniel and Celeglin wander in and out of dreams that are born from waking, and when he does sleep it is to see flames reaching to the sky above the Library. He wakes with a start and a curse, and the big grey hound sprawled across the foot of the bed pricks her ears ever so slightly, eyes bright in the glow from the embers of the fire.

"That is enough of that," Eldarion mutters, and sits up, shaking his head to clear it. The hound lets her head drop back onto the coverlet and thumps her tail; the Prince swings his legs out of bed.

His intention is to get dressed and go outside, knowing from past experience that if he wakes up properly then he is far more likely to be able to sleep, but as he looks around the room his gaze alights on the tattered old book that he borrowed from the Library a few days ago. For a moment or two he runs his fingers over the faded spine, and then he pulls his chair up to his desk, sits down, and begins to read.

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Several hours later, the sun has risen, and Eleniel is running late. The work of the night before has taken its toll, and when she is woken by the weak sun on her face she is extremely disgruntled to find that her body-clock has failed her. She panics for a few minutes, before remembering that Eldarion has to sit in the City Council and will therefore be every bit as late as she. Idril, she feels sure, will still be recovering from whatever merry-making was to be had at the Palace, and so it is at a leisurely pace that she eats breakfast and sees to the cat, letting herself out of the door just as the bell from the Citadel strikes ten.

She takes her time walking up to the Library, expecting to be the first to arrive; to her shock, however, as she nears the Library she finds the door wide open. There is a tall, well-dressed man standing outside and whistling, and when he sees her he greets her in a cheerful manner.

"Eleniel, I take it?" he says as she draws near, grasping her hand and shaking it firmly. "I'm Elboron, Eldarion sent – why, it's the girl with the cat!"

Eleniel stares at him. "You're the soldier!" He is no longer wearing dirty chain-mail, and in truth is almost unrecognisable, but his blue eyes are every bit as friendly.

"Well, it _is_ a small world," he tells her with a grin. "Eldarion described you in enough detail last night – I should have realised!"

Eleniel quells her natural curiosity to hear exactly how the Prince has described her. "It's an honour, my lord. I hope the journey from the borders went well?"

"It did, I thank you." He offers her an arm, and she takes it hesitantly. "As I was saying, Eldarion sent me down here with the men to supervise. They should be finished very soon; they certainly started early enough!"

"Men?" asks Eleniel, confused.

"Yes, the Queen sent them. They are mending the stairs into the gallery."

"Already? But – it was only yesterday that…"

"When the Evenstar wants something done," says Elboron as they descend the steps, "it is done fast. – Here we are, my lady, a veritable hive of industry!"

Eleniel stares as they enter the foyer. The ancient, crumbling staircase is gone, and in its place is one that looks as though it is made of solid oak; the dozen or so men who appear to have effected this change are hard at work, the sound of hammering ringing throughout the Library.

"Goodness," she says weakly. "It – I don't know what to say."

"Well, that's as well, because I can barely hear you," Elboron informs her. "Shall we leave them to it? They will not be much longer."

Eleniel agrees, and they make their way back up into the open air, where Elboron immediately engages her in spirited discussion about anything and everything; the formations of the clouds above them, the people that hurry past in the street, and even the robin that perches on the archway, feathers fluffed up against the cold. He is an entertaining and engaging companion, and Eleniel soon puts aside the feeling that she is being carefully scrutinised and enjoys the companionship.

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High above them, Eldarion is once more losing his temper.

"…extensive plans for buildings to be erected by autumn at the latest," Stelbin is saying smoothly, while the plans circulate the table. Eldarion exchanges glances with the Steward as the latter passes them to him. "The old building will be knocked down, and the stone re-used; they serve no purpose as they are, especially the old City Library."

"You will pardon me for mentioning it." Prince Elphir of Dol Amroth, lounging in his chair and drumming his fingers on the arm, speaks up for the first time. "I was led to believe that the Library was in the process of being restored to full working order, and in any case 'twould be a shame for such a collection to be lost."

Stelbin smiles slightly. "Indeed. Let me tell you, gentlemen; the young woman who is attempting to carry out this so-called 'restoration', in addition to having a part-time job as barmaid in one of the less reputable inns –" the King looks up sharply, but makes no comment, " – is at present one of my tenants. I own not only the Library but her house as well. She will not present a problem."

"That was not quite what I meant," murmurs Elphir sardonically, catching Eldarion's eye.

Stelbin spreads his hands in an expansive gesture. "My lords, I see no obstacles to this plan. The Library is verging on being a public hazard as it is; it should be knocked down."

Eldarion clenches his fists beneath the table. "I beg to differ."

Stelbin's smile is mocking. "You have objections, my lord Prince? – Youthful fancies," he continues, addressing the council at large. "His Royal Highness is determined that he shall be a knight in shining armour; rather touching, is it not?"

There are a few uneasy laughs. Faramir lays a hand on Eldarion's arm, and the King gives him a warning glance; Eldarion forces himself to smile. "I was referring to the lack of men available to carry out your plans, among other things. Of course, I do have objections, and I trust that they will not go unnoticed by this Council."

At the foot of the table, Aragorn shifts in his chair and clears his throat. All eyes fix themselves on him. When he speaks, his voice is calm. "Come, Stelbin. Surely these new buildings are unnecessary? The schemes in the lower levels are still taking up much of our workforce, and I must admit that I agree with the Princes – there is a wealth of knowledge to be found, I believe."

"Old rubbish. Long-dead languages, the words of dead men whose scribblings mean nothing!"

"Now, hold on a minute!" exclaims the head of the City's Teaching Guild, and there is a sudden babble of noise as everyone tries to make themselves heard, a dozen different arguments breaking out within seconds. Prince Faramir mutters something about small children and grown men, gets to his feet and bangs hard on the table.

"That is enough! Silence, all of you, and let us discuss this in a civilized manner!" He glares around at them, and most of them have the grace to look ashamed; those few who have stood up sink slowly back into their seats. The Steward of Gondor may not be a military man by choice, but he is well able to subdue a roomful of the most powerful men in the City. "Your majesty, the floor is yours."

The King nods at his Steward and leans forward. "As I was about to say – I feel that this plan of destroying the Library is a foolish one. There are centuries of learning there – Eldarion, I believe you found something of interest, did you not?"

Eldarion nods. "A book, detailing old heraldries, and if I am not mistaken written by Elendil himself. It certainly bears his mark, and the writing matches those few examples we have of it." A murmur of interest goes around the room. Stelbin, for an instant, looks murderous. "There is still the matter of the passages which run beneath the Library."

The King's upraised hand forestalls Stelbin's retort. "Eldarion, how near are you to finishing the renovation of the Library?" he asks bluntly.

Eldarion blinks. "I – am not the best person to ask," he says carefully. "The Librarian would know better – I should say a matter of weeks."

"Stelbin. When do you want to start work?"

"As soon as possible. I –"

"This is my judgement." The King stands, and the rest of the room hurriedly stands also. "Eldarion, I am giving you and the Librarian until Midwinter. That is two weeks. If, by that time, the Library is fit to reopen, then there will be no building site, and the Library will resume operation as a public convenience. Lord Stelbin, kindlydo _not_ interrupt. If, however, the Library is at that time serving no purpose, the most important documents will be removed and Lord Stelbin may continue with his plans. Have I the agreement of the Council in this matter?"

It is a clever ruse. Eldarion watches as heads nod, some more reluctantly than others, and flashes his father a look of gratitude, even as he wonders how they are ever to finish the Library in two weeks.

"Good. This session is closed."

As the room empties, Eldarion sinks back into his seat, staring at his father. "Two weeks?"

Aragorn is gathering up his papers. He raises one eyebrow at his son. "Two weeks. Eldarion, I can delay him for no longer, you know that."

"Of course," mutters Eldarion, running a hand through his hair. Faramir perches on the table beside him.

"Something more troubles you," he remarks. "Come, Eldarion, tell uncle Faramir all."

"It's just a feeling." Frustrated, Eldarion heaves a sigh. "Why does he want to close the Library so badly? Why now? Idril thinks that I'm being paranoid, and it's just malice, but – I _know_ there's more to it than that. Stelbin is hiding something."

The two older men exchange glances.

"Eleniel heard voices in the passageways under the Library. Stelbin doesn't want us down there. I call that suspicious." Eldarion gets to his feet with a grimace; the muscles in his neck have seized up from poring over the old book at the dead of night.

"Keep an eye on him. Keep an eye on the Library, and especially keep an eye on Eleniel," says the King with a frown.

"What! Eleniel? You can't think she would – that's absurd…"

"Peace!" The King looks around the room; it is empty but for the three of them. "Of course not. But I happen to know that Eleniel is being watched."

"By who?" says Eldarion, bristling.

"Stelbin was right, Eleniel has been working at an inn. I understand that she does so in order to make ends meet; Stelbin taxes hard. She was caught out last night, though, because there is a new barmaid, and I do not believe it to be coincidence that this barmaid was recently employed by the Lady Celeglin of Lebennin as a scullery-maid."

Eldarion groans aloud. "I might have known. But – you don't think Celeglin and Stelbin…"

I do not know." Aragorn's lips twist. "I would not be surprised, but Celeglin is more than capable of revenging herself on Eleniel for imagined wrongs. "

"I will be careful," promises Eldarion.

"And how might you have come by this information, your majesty?" asks Faramir wryly.

"I have my ways," says the King with great dignity.

Faramir, straight-faced, looks at Eldarion. "Was not his majesty absent from much of dinner last night?"

Eldarion shakes his head solemnly. "A sudden influx of paperwork, the Queen was told."

"Imagine if a rumour were to reach her ears…"

"Get out, the pair of you!" cries Elessar, and the Steward and the Prince retreat, laughing.

Eldarion parts ways with Faramir in the courtyard, and sets out for the Library. It is a grey day, bitterly cold once more, a watery sun filtering through the clouds, and as he walks he feels his spirits sink once more. Eleniel, he feels sure, will not be pleased with the news he brings.

When he reaches the Library, he finds Eleniel and Elboron sitting on the rickety bench; the latter hails him cheerfully. "'Darion! How was the Council?"

"As perverse as ever. Next time, I shall expect you to be there," snaps Eldarion. "I have never met anyone less in need of recovering from a long journey."

Elboron raises his eyebrows at his friend. "What's biting you?"

"Bad news, I fear." Eldarion looks at Eleniel, who looks bewildered. "Stelbin made a complaint. He has building plans, and he wants to knock the Library down."

"But we knew that," says Eleniel with a frown.

"Yes, but now it's been put to the Council, and – the King has stalled him. Eleniel, how long will it take us to finish the Library?"

Clearly nonplussed, Eleniel stares up at him. "I don't know. A month?"

"We have until Midwinter. That's two weeks. After that, we can do nothing."

Eleniel jumps to her feet. "Two weeks? Two weeks to catalogue that entire wing, and then the gallery! And when we've done that, we have to find the storerooms, and Eru alone knows what is hiding down there…" she visibly regains control of herself, biting her lips together so hard that they go white and sinking back down onto the bench. "I'm sorry, my lords, I – it – it just seems such a _waste_, and…"

"Not at all," says Eldarion firmly. "I think we have some work to do."

"But it's hopeless! We can't possibly finish…"

Eldarion crouches down so that he is at her eye-level. "Lady Librarian, there is always hope." She sighs.

"I had a horrible feeling you were going to say something like that," she mutters with a reluctant grin. "You are right, of course. Where's Idril?"

"I dispatched her on a mission," says Eldarion. "That book that I took home a few days ago – I think it was written by Elendil. She has gone to consult with some of the scholars."

"Really?" Eleniel looks delighted. "Goodness, to think it must have been hiding away for all those years! Perhaps we may find another?"

"Perhaps," agrees Eldarion, unable to keep from smiling at her sudden enthusiasm. Behind him, Elboron clears his throat.

"Lady Eleniel, I should like to offer my services."

"Accepted," says Eleniel immediately. "I – I think that the more people, the better."

"That will be four of us," says Eldarion, nodding at his friend as he stands. "Would you like to wait for Idril, or shall we make a start?"

Eleniel rubs her nose, for once not smearing ink over it. "I think we should make a start. The builders left a while ago – I will go and see what sort of state the gallery is in. Yes, my lord, I know it may not be safe," she says as Eldarion opens his mouth, "but I am lighter than either of you, and the floor will hold up better under my weight."

"Very well," says Eldarion grudgingly, "but we are using the rope."

Idril, when she marches down the stairs into the Library an hour later, is met by the sight of Eleniel halfway around the high gallery, the rope tied around her waist stretched tight and in the middle of an argument with Eldarion.

"…not even the remotest possibility that this floor will give way. It's solid stone, these cracks have been here for time immemorial…"

"Yes, just awaiting the day when a little extra weight tips the whole balance! How do you know it's safe? You said yourself, you know nothing about…"

"Oh, and I suppose you do, your royal highnessness?"

"I should hope so, the Dwarf-Lord of Aglarond is my adopted uncle! Eleniel…"

Eleniel, high above him, gives an exasperated sigh. "What do you propose, then?"

"Oh, for the love of the Valar," Eldarion mutters, and within a few seconds he has joined her. She glares at him.

"What happened to it not being safe?"

"You've already trodden on this part," Eldarion says reasonably, crouching down and studying the crack that runs across the stonework. "You're right, as it happens; this is only a crack in the outer layer. It was probably there when this was built."

"Well, that's a relief." Eleniel waves down at Idril, who waves back. "Idril! What did they say about the book?"

"'Darion was right!" calls the Princess. "They got very excited, and didn't want me to take it back again, but I insisted – how does the gallery look?"

"As good as can be expected." Eleniel tugs ineffectually at the rope around her waist as Eldarion moves past her. "There's a lot of dust, a few too many spiders for my liking – my lord, I hate to sound inept, but please will you untie me from this rope?"

"Yes, when we're back on the ground." Eldarion has reached the far end of the gallery; he runs one hand across the spines of the books, marvelling as the dust falls away to reveal faded titles. He peers closer. "Well, well. I think we may have found the – oh, no, _surely_ not!"

"What?" Three voices chorus instantly. There is a muffled grunt from Eleniel, then she appears at his side, looking flustered and rather annoyed.

"My lord, the next time I let you tie me to a rope…"

"Look!" Eldarion eases one of the big volumes out from the shelf; it crackles ominously and a cloud of dust blossoms around them.

"'Being a Full Account of the Division of the lands of Gondor and Arnor, and of Private Ownership in the Cities of those Lands,'" reads Eleniel aloud. "'As set down by Elendil, High King, and later his son Isildur' – but…"

"Here are your deeds!" In his excitement, Eldarion squeezes her tightly about the waist. "Eleniel, if anything can tell us who really owns the Library, than this can!"

Eleniel's face is flushed and her eyes are bright; Eldarion finds himself wanting to do nothing so much as kiss her, and he stands hastily as she says, "But this – this could be – I mean, we can't rely on it, there might not be any deeds, but…"

"This could save us! Eleniel, if we work through these…"

"Wait. Slow down." Eleniel places the book carefully back on the shelf. "My lord, we can't assume that – I mean, it's a lovely idea. It always has been a lovely idea," she adds rather desperately, eyes pleading. "But it's more than likely that one of my ancestors just made it up. Old men, you know, with active imaginations. How often do these things survive throughout the ages?"

Eldarion fixes her with a stern gaze. "My dear lady librarian, my own ancestors achieved far greater insignificance than did yours. Would you attribute the line of Elendil and the ascension of Elessar to the active imaginations of old men?"

"No," mutters Eleniel. Below them, Idril clears her throat significantly.

"Eleniel, 'Darion, are you two going to confide in we mere mortals?" she calls up, her tone annoyed. Eldarion glances over the stone rail and sees her standing directly below, hands on her hips. "I think that one of us should take that book home and start reading through it."

"Easier said than done," replies Eleniel. "There are about twenty volumes, it looks like. We would have to read fast, and we must do some work today." She looks thoughtful. "If we start cataloguing up here rather than doing the other wing, we can see what there is. Does that sound like a good plan?"

"It sounds an excellent plan," says Eldarion, pulling her to her feet and leading the way back down to the ground floor. "Shall we make a start?"

Getting the materials organised and deciding where to start in the gallery takes some time, but eventually they split into two teams, with Eldarion and Elboron cleaning shelves and moving books into the right places while Eleniel and Idril catalogue them. The gallery is a mess; stacks of scrolls and books litter the floor, and in some places the cobwebs are so thick that they attach themselves to Eldarion's hair, turning him silver-grey. Despite this, they work fast and determinedly, and it is not until they have just started the section on Plants and Herbs of Arda that an interruption occurs.

Elboron is reaching around the back of one of the shelves, after a crumpled pile of paper that looks as though it has been a nest for many generations of long-dead mice, when his shoulder brushes against the wall and the rumble of machinery suddenly echoes throughout the Library. Eldarion, behind him, sees the wall begin to move and drags his friend backwards as the stones move slowly and ponderously apart. Elboron swears roundly in Rohirric.

Eleniel and Idril come running. The former skids to a halt beside Eldarion and looks positively delighted. "Oh, well done, my lords!"

"Well done for what?" Elboron demands. "I could have gone headfirst down that hole!"

"I think you may have found the storerooms." Eleniel peers cautiously into the newly-revealed archway.

"Only think how thick the walls must be," says Eldarion in wonder. There is a stairway leading down into darkness; a dank, musty smell wafts towards them, together with a blast of cold air. "Eleniel, do libraries usually store things in walls?"

"No, but they may hide the entrances to their storerooms." Eleniel wrinkles her nose at the smell. "We need torches, before we go down there."

"No need," says Idril, pushing forwards. "Look, I can see daylight!" She slips past Eleniel and disappears down the stairwell, her voice echoing cheerfully up at them. "Come on, it's not so bad – oops, nearly slipped there…"

The other three heave identical sighs and follow her.

True enough, there is light, of a sort. The source can be seen when they reach the bottom and are faced with a huge, mouldering collection of broken shelves and furniture, lit by arrow-slit windows on the side which must, Eldarion thinks, look out across the City. By the smell of it, damp has invaded through broken glass.

Eleniel sets off across the floor, Idril in tow. "I don't think there's much down here," she says, her voice strangely muffled. Eldarion stays where he is, poking about gingerly in a box full of old papers. Elboron crouches down beside him.

"She is determined, I give her that," he remarks quietly.

"Eleniel?" Eldarion glances up at his friend. "Stubborn, certainly."

"I met her last night," muses Elboron. He sits back on his heels, gazing out thoughtfully across the storeroom. "She came to see if she had letters, I think, and she seemed worried. Does she have relatives in the army?"

"A brother." Eldarion watches Eleniel and Idril, over at the narrow windows; the latter is craning her neck to try and see out. "Father thinks that she is being spied upon."

"Spied upon?" Clearly surprised, Elboron raises his eyebrows. "Why? – Oh, but wait, has this something to do with Lady Celeglin?"

"Why is it that this city is as secretive as a mumakil in a treehouse?" Eldarion asks rhetorically. "Yes, it is something to do with Celeglin. And I cannot shake the suspicion that it is somehow linked to Stelbin's plans, and that there must be some kind of reason that he wants us out of the Library."

"You must show me these secret passages of yours," Elboron says with a yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

"Not mine, Eleniel's," Eldarion corrects him.

"She is different to what I expected," Elboron says seriously. "I half-expected to find some frightfully boring middle-aged spinster, despite assurances to the contrary. What will she do if we do not finish the Library?"

"She will not be made homeless, not if I have any say in the matter. She could be companion to Idril, if she would consent, or if not – the royal Library, perhaps, or…"

"Are you going to marry her?"

Eldarion swallows hard but says nothing. Away across the storeroom, the Eleniel has found some ancient rusting horn-like instrument; the appalling noise that it makes sends both her and Idril into fits of laughter.

"'Darion?" Elboron peers into his friend's face. "Are you?"

Eldarion releases his breath in a sigh. "I – it is not as simple as that," he says in a low voice, picking his words with care. "If I were to – there are her feelings to consider, which must come first, and she has given no indication, and I – aside from that, there is my duty to the kingdom."

"You used to quote duty to me as a reason for letting Celeglin pursue you," says Elboron wryly. "If you are uncertain of her feelings, then why not ask her?"

"And risk the loss of her friendship? Have her think that I – no, I cannot, not now." Eldarion thinks, has thought, of a million possible reactions from Eleniel, and by far the worst is the idea of her thinking her trust in him betrayed. He can imagine the hurt in her eyes far too easily.

There is another coarse blast from the unfortunate horn, then a metallic crash, and the two men look up to see Idril and Eleniel picking their way back across the floor. Idril is carrying a rusty sword-blade, but they are otherwise empty-handed. "Nothing worth salvaging," says Eleniel cheerfully as they draw near, "which is a relief. I was sure we were going to find piles and piles of things that would all have to be recorded and moved; as it is, we can empty the room, mend the windows and start storing books in here."

"Good!" Eldarion jumps to his feet, all too aware of Elboron's smirk. "Eleniel, shall we continue with the gallery?"

Once they have left the damp and unpleasant underground room, work progresses swiftly. The Herbs and Plants section is followed by an extensive collection of writings in Rohirric, for the translation of which Elboron proves invaluable, and by the time darkness starts to fall they have cleaned and catalogued nearly a quarter of the gallery. Looking far happier than she was earlier in the day, Eleniel eventually calls a halt; they descend the steps discussing Rohirric written poetry, which is valued for its rarity and its beauty.

As agreed, they each take a volume of the 'Division of Lands' to look over that night; Eleniel apologises profusely for causing bother until Idril tells her bluntly not to be ridiculous. They are stiff to each other for approximately two minutes, until Idril apologises and Eleniel agrees to be less diffident. "You're our friend, you goose," Idril says affectionately. "Besides, we want Stelbin to win as little as you. Just imagine what a blow it would be to him to find that you owned some of his land!"

Shortly thereafter, Idril and Elboron take the passage back to the Palace. Eldarion insists on seeing Eleniel home; as they leave the Library by the main door he tells her at last about the danger he thinks she may be in.

Face bathed in ghostly yellow light from the lantern she carries, Eleniel makes a face. "I knew about Laleth," she says. "A man at the bar told me." She frowns. "_He_ was odd, now. Tall, wearing a cloak and a hood, never showed his face – do you think…"

"I think I know who it was, and I think he is fairly trustworthy," says Eldarion hastily. "Eleniel, all I ask is that you are careful. Try not to be alone with this Laleth, and be very careful walking home after you finish at the inn." He frowns. "You never told me you had to work at an inn."

Eleniel opens her mouth to reply; Eldarion inwardly curses himself, realising how his words could sound, and hastens to reassure her.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean – I just had no idea that you were taxed so hard by Stelbin. I…"

To his relief, Eleniel laughs. "Never mind. I'm not offended, my lord! I think," she pauses, evidently searching for the right words, "I think I – I know you better than that, now, to think that you would – I mean – I trust you," She finishes lamely, and goes a charming shade of scarlet.

Eldarion feels a warm glow spread through him, and struggles to quell the ridiculous urge to grin like a maniac. "Thankyou, my lady," he says, and settles for an affectionate smile instead. She slips her arm through hers, and they proceed down the street in a comfortable silence.

When he has seen Eleniel safely to her door, Eldarion starts the journey back up the hill again, his mind whirling. He is so preoccupied that he is two streets away before he notices something out of place.

There are footsteps, following him.

Eldarion thinks for a moment, then settles upon a string of curses under his breath in fluent Qeunyan. He carries on walking, apparently unconcerned, but his hand, hidden by his cloak, slides to his belt, and he gradually draws the long dagger that he keeps there, while listening to the soft footfalls behind him draw ever closer.

So intent is he on the unknown follower that he is unprepared for the dark figures who leap from an alleyway, and before he can counter the attack he finds himself slammed to the ground so hard that he sees stars. His hands are pinned to the snowy stones, the dagger knocked away; he kicks out, and hears a grunt, but then his legs are being held, and there must be at least three of them, and he is about to put up a better struggle when, suddenly, ice-cold steel is at his throat.

"Do not move," says a deep voice, somewhere above him. "Your Royal Highness_."_


	11. Chapter Ten

Disclaimer: All of Tolkien's characters and places belong to him. I own Eleniel, although she probably wishes I didn't. This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and reviews would be wonderful. Reviews help me update sooner…- Thanks to everyone who's been poking me!

Tadaaaa! Believe it or not, I am still alive, despite the best efforts of my teachers, and lo and behold here be Chapter Ten…

Chapter Ten

Eldarion freezes. He can see the long line of steel touching his throat, reflecting the dull light of the half-hidden moon. He thinks fast. "Who are you?"

"No questions," the voice growls. "Silence."

Eldarion raises an eyebrow. "I am inclined to disobey."

The steel presses harder against his throat. "You're hardly in a position to do so."

Eldarion snorts. "The likelihood of you cutting my throat is slim. I think I will take my chances. Who is planning to hold me hostage this time?"

The dark figure above him laughs, entirely humourlessly. "Nobody."

"No – oh. Ah." He is unprepared for that revelation. He can deal with hostage-takers, has done in the past more times than he can count, but assassins are more difficult. "Killing me here, in the middle of the street? Is that the best of ideas?" Talking, he knows, buys time.

"I've a message for you." A booted foot kicks his side unexpectedly, and Eldarion hisses at the sudden pain.

"Really? A message? How nice. From whom?" he manages. The boot makes contact with his ribs again.

"I was bidden to say that you have lost. Death now faces you, brave Captain of the White Tower." The tone is mocking.

"What, no useful names? No great revelation of some master-plan?" Eldarion knows fear. Fear haunts his dreams when he hears the screams of his sisters, sees battlefields littered with the dying wounded, and watches from his father's throne as Gondor falls in ruins around him. Eldarion Telcontar fears failure far, far more than death.

His captor does not, of course, realise this. "And now, Eldarion, last of the line of Elendil, prepare to meet thy end," he hisses, and lifts the sword to deliver the deathblow.

It is all the chance Eldarion needs. He twists against the slackened hold on his arms, rolling forward so that the one holding his legs tumbles back with a muffled yelp. He feels the sword whistle past his right ear and surges upright, lunges instinctively for the blade, and is immediately locked in a struggle with the man who wields it, forcing him back against the wall. The other two accomplices charge forward, but by this time Eldarion has wrenched the blade loose; his adversary, stunned, slides down the wall. Sword in hand, Eldarion turns, and the other two back away slowly.

"If I were you, I would run," Eldarion informs them. "And carry a message to your employer. Tell them that I have not lost, and that I do not take kindly to assassination attempts. Now go!" They take off at a run.

Eldarion watches until they are around the corner, then turns back to the man slumped on the floor. He drops down beside him and pulls the hood back roughly, then sets the sword at his throat. The eyes fly open.

"Unlike you," Eldarion informs him, "I do not draw my blade away before I slit a man's throat." He has never cut a man's throat in cold blood in his life, and does not intend to do so now, but his captive doesn't need to know that. "Who employed you? Speak quickly!"

"May you be swallowed in the fiery pits of Udun," the man snarls. His face is rough and unshaven, the nose crooked, a scar running over his left cheek. A fighter. "You and your cursed elf-mother."

"That's treason," Eldarion says pleasantly. "Was it Stelbin?"

"You'll get nothing out of me!"

The sword-blade presses harder. "On the contrary. If I were to cut your throat, the red blood would spurt out like a fountain. Of course, if I missed the windpipe you would die an agonising –"

"You won't kill me, you royal coward!"

Eldarion sighs. "True," he agrees. "Come on. Stand up. I'm taking you to the palace."

The man stands slowly, warily, his face twisted into a sneer. "If you think I'm lettin' you walk me up there…" he drops like a log as Eldarion's fist connects with his jaw.

"I never said that," Eldarion mutters, shaking his hand with a wince, then bending down and heaving the unwieldy bulk of the unconscious assassin onto his shoulders. The man is big, even taller than he is, and Eldarion lets out a grunt as his bruised side protests. "Oof. Valar save us all from fools." He trudges on up the street, head bowed, and misses the dark figure that detaches itself from the back of a nearby house and moves silently away in the opposite direction.

-------------------------------------------

It is one in the morning. Eldarion and Elboron, both dressed entirely in black, emerge silently from the passageway into the huge dark space that is the Library. Eldarion's lantern casts eerie shadows from the looming stacks.

"We are crazy." Elboron's voice is hushed; he follows a little way behind the Prince as they start forward. "Why could we not do this in daylight? And why could we not bring guards? I have nothing against adventuring, but…"

"We would make far too much noise, with more men. Elboron, if you do not wish to come then you only have to…"

"I would hit you, but there would be little point," says Elboron sourly. "I agree with your sister; you are growing paranoid in your old age."

"Maybe so. Would you feel better if I commanded you to come?"

"I consider myself commanded. 'Darion, I wager you my mare's new saddle that we will find nothing."

"Wager accepted." Eldarion reaches the end of the Library, and turns left, then kneels down beside the old screen which covers the gaping hole in the floor. He shifts it aside to reveal the steps leading down into the darkness, and glances up at his friend. "Elboron, will you come or no?"

"I will," says the other with a sigh. "You are nearly as bad as Idril used to be. Do you remember when she must have been, oh, six I should think, we would have been about fifteen, and she led us on that hare-brained escapade when she took your horse from the stables and went off without telling anyone?"

"She still drags people into hare-brained escapades," says Eldarion distractedly, already disappearing down the steps into the darkness. "Usually because she believes that she is a better rider than she is."

"You should have seen her, in Ithilien," says Elboron behind him, admiration in his tone. "Wild and free, like one of the shieldmaidens of yore. Mother was delighted."

"She's not strong enough to control your horses," says Eldarion severely. "I do wish you would not encourage her. Either that, or marry her and then she would be your responsibility."

"Marry Idril?" There is a silence, but for the sound of their footsteps, and then, "Do you know, I had never thought of that."

Eldarion grins, knowing that his friend cannot see him. "Perhaps it is time you did, if you are going to. The men at court flock around her like bees to a honeypot." He reaches the bottom of the steps, and looks around. Elboron arrives beside him and gives a low whistle of surprise.

"If ever I saw an underground passage certain to hide secrets galore, it is this one," he remarks, then winces as his voice echoes around the enclosed space. Eldarion holds his finger to his lips, and they move forward.

The remains of the string that Eldarion had used before still lie on the ground, next to the Ranger symbol for danger ahead. Eldarion locates the hidden lever that stops the tipping floor, and as he fumbles in the wall says to Elboron in a low voice, "There are pits in the floor – I think I remember where – and after that, blades come out of nowhere. Tread where I tread, and be very much on your guard."

It turns out that they need to be on their guard. The knives are totally silent but for the swish of air as they swing; Eldarion can hear a constant mutter of Rohirric behind him as Elboron tries to keep his balance, and feels the bitter tang of blood as he bites his own tongue by accident. He spits with a grimace and clings to the side of the passage, working out his next move.

"There's a ledge," hisses Elboron in his ear, pointing to the opposite side of the passage. Eldarion glances back behind them; they have come as far as he did before, and he is unwilling to cede defeat now.

"I hate this kind of thing," he says under his breath, and jumps.

Metal screeches past his head, and he twists and lands at an awkward angle, stumbling on impact. Elboron joins him a second later, and they press against the wall, listening to the echoes die away.

"…not successful. We need better planning."

Eldarion blinks as the voice filters up from somewhere around floor level, and looks downwards. There is a narrow grille, set just above the floor, and he crouches down as quietly as he can, motioning Elboron down beside him.

"You will never catch him unawares again." The voice is female, low and impatient. "I know him; he will be doubly on his guard."

Eldarion peers into the dim room through the grille, but can see nothing beyond indistinct shadows against a flickering candle. He listens closely.

"And we must act quickly," muses the first voice again. "The king grows wary."

There is a rustle, as of long skirts, and the woman says, "Then how would you have me dispose of the Prince?"

"I know that voice," breathes Elboron, but Eldarion silences him with an impatient flap of his hand.

"My dear, if Prince Eldarion does not die at the Midwinter Ball along with his elf-witch mother and that girl from the Library, I will be _severely_ displeased." The voice becomes noticeably sharper. "Kill him, my lady. I will deal with the King at a later date."

Elboron's eyes are narrowed in the light from the grille. He looks directly at Eldarion. "Assassins. You were right."

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"…make an arrest on the night, but how can we when we know nothing of the enemy?" Eldarion's voice is frustrated, and as Eleniel comes down the steps into the Library she finds him pacing back and forth across the foyer, watched by Elboron. "If only – Eleniel, are you all right?"

"Yes, as far as I know," says Eleniel, surprised by his urgent tone. "You are here early, my lords." She peers more closely at the Prince. "Have you actually slept at all?"

"I was busy," says Eldarion rather grimly. Behind him, Elboron looks as though he is bursting to say something; the Heir favours him with a glare before continuing, "We have a few matters to take care of. Do you mind waiting?"

"Not at all." Eleniel moves over to her desk. "I have plenty of work to do; I can carry on searching through that _Division of Lands_ if needs be. Is Idril coming?"

"She is," announces Idril's voice from the passage, and Idril saunters out, resplendent in a pair of baggy breeches and ancient shirt. Elboron stares at her admiringly, and she blushes slightly. "You two run along."

"Have fun," adds Eleniel, silently envying the fact that Idril can still look glamorous and regal even in cast-off men's clothing.

Eldarion hesitates. "Stay indoors, please; I think it would be safer. There may be danger about."

"We will, and if Stelbin turns up I shall send Idril back to the Palace," promises Eleniel, and Idril makes a strange kind of angry snort.

"You will not be sending me anywhere," she says indignantly. "Are we cataloguing?"

With the other two gone, Eleniel and Idril continue with the work on the gallery. It is odd working without Eldarion; Eleniel finds that she misses his smile, his dry remarks, not to mention that little flutter of – _something – _that his glance frequently causes. _Something silly_, she tells herself sternly, and applies herself to working.

After about two hours they stop for a break, sitting down on the stone floor cross-legged and wondering where the two men have gone. "Important business," says Idril with a roll of the eyes. "They went to see the King early this morning about something."

"It must be important, then." Eleniel rubs her nose. "We've nearly finished the Gallery – I hardly know where to start with that wing."

Idril reaches over to pull the old records towards her and opens them randomly, the heavy pages crackling. "Hah. We should start with the section on Treaties of the Second Age between Gondor and Rhun, that's what we should do."

"Yes, but first we have to finish all this poetry!" Eleniel clambers to her feet and pulls the Princess up after her. "I could wish that there had not been quite so many poetic lovers in Arda's past."

"Love is poetry, and drama," says Idril loftily, "and raging fires of passion."

Eleniel eyes her doubtfully. "I think it could get rather annoying, being read poetry all the time."

"True. _Odes to Cinthara, Volume Two." _Idril moves along the row, Eleniel scribbling down the name of the volume and ticking it off the old records. "Some of the moronic boys at court would play the harp and sing outside my window every single night when I was a few years younger. It was sweet at first, but it gradually drove me insane."

"Every night is excessive."

"_Elegies of the Anduin Vales._ Eldarion used to sing and play the harp; some of the Sindarin love-songs from the First Age are very lovely," adds Idril randomly, leaning on the shelves. "You should ask him to play to you. I'm sure he would."

"I wouldn't dream of it," says Eleniel, blushing.

"_A Selection of Poems from Numenor._ He is very good, actually. I listen sometimes, when he thinks there's no one there."

Eleniel waits while Idril climbs the ladder to reach the top shelf. "Idril? Do you – do you think that Eldarion will marry someone else, now that Celeglin is – is…"

"Removed from the picture?" Idril raises an eyebrow. "I don't know." She prods at the spines of the books. "He's been acting rather strangely for a few days – I think he's worried about you, you know."

Eleniel looks away. After a few seconds, Idril says with uncharacteristic gentleness, "Eleniel, he worries because he cares about you."

"He shouldn't," says Eleniel morosely. "I almost wish that he'd never come here – I – I still think it's my fault that there's this danger and…"

Idril sighs, sitting on the top rung of the ladder. "I think he got attacked last night. It's happened before. But it's not your fault, how can it possibly be? If someone wants to kill one of us then they'll do it regardless."

"I know that really. It's just…"

Idril nudges her with an outstretched foot. "You are moping again. Come, do you want them to come back and be smug because we've only done a few shelves?"

It turns out that whatever has called the two men away detains them for most of the morning as well; a page-boy arrives from the palace at around lunchtime with an apologetic note from Eldarion and some sandwiches from the kitchens. The afternoon wears on, punctuated by speculation and the odd incident with the ladder, but for the most part productive.

Eleniel is rummaging behind the desk for more paper when she at last hears hoof-beats outside; she straightens, unable to stop the smile that spreads across her face. Idxril is deep in the left wing somewhere. "They're back!" she shouts, though she doubts the Princess will hear, as footsteps sound on the stairs. "And about time; I was beginning to…_you_!"

Lord Stelbin's boots ring hard on the floor as he stalks towards her. He is flanked by three men, who carry sheathed swords. "Greetings," he says amicably, coming to a halt not far from her. I have things that I would – discuss – with you."

Eleniel knows she is in trouble. The three men have moved to flank her, cutting off any means of escape. "Then discuss them by all mean, and get out."

Abruptly, Stelbin lashes out with the riding crop he holds in his hand. "Insolence," breathes the tall man, and she bites her tongue, cheek stinging where he has struck her.

"I want you out of this place," Stelbin continues, his voice still soft, stroking the whip along Eleniel's cheek. "I want you out, or make no mistake about it, I will turn you out of that miserable hovel that you call a home."

Eleniel is frightened, but she tries not to show it. "If you do, then I shall tell the King of this! How would that look, threatening an unarmed woman and…"

Stelbin raises the whip again, and she trails off. He smiles thinly. "I am entitled under ancient laws to treat you as I choose, no matter the amendments that your precious Prince may make." He makes a sudden move, and Eleniel is unable to stop herself from flinching. "Perhaps a scar across that pretty cheek of yours would do the trick…"

"I am _not_ afraid of you!"

"Liar." His eyes are cold. "Now, will you co-operate?"

"No!" Eleniel lifts her chin, pressing herself back against the desk as he moves closer. As if in a dream, she hears footsteps on the stairs.

"Such a great shame," Stelbin says thoughtfully, staring down at her. The whip cracks, and Eleniel feels a stinging pain just under her ear, and then he is crushing her against the hard desk and his face is descending towards hers, breath hot, and she tries to turn but his hand is holding her with a grip like steel…

"How _dare_ you!"

Suddenly that dreadful weight is removed, and Stelbin goes crashing to the floor, and there stands Eldarion, eyes flashing, visibly shaking with fury. "_How dare you,_" he snarls again, and the look on his face is terrifying. Stelbin staggers to his feet.

"If the wench was more obedient then…"

Eldarion's fist lashes out, and the older man reels, only catching himself from falling by hanging onto the shelves. "You low scum, you wretched excuse for a snivelling worm, _get out_. Get out before I kill you."

Stelbin is backing away. His three guards have disappeared. "A matter between myself and my tenant, Sire, should not…" He walks into Elboron, who mutely seizes him by the shoulders and marches him away up the stairs.

Eldarion stares at Eleniel, his face drained of colour. "Eleniel, what – what did he…"

"Nothing too bad," says Eleniel shakily, and suddenly finds herself in his arms.

"Oh, thank the Valar, I – I thought – when I saw the horses and…" he pulls back so that he can gaze down at her anxiously, and his eyes darken. "He hit you." Long fingers brush the mark on her neck. "I _will_ kill him."

"He's going to turn me out of my home." Eleniel shivers. "He'll do it. I can't stop him, I can't – I can't – he's winning, he…"

"He will _not_ win!" Eldarion's eyes are afire. "By all that I hold dear I swear to you, Eleniel, he will not win!"

Eleniel smiles up at him. "Why is it that when you say it I always believe you?"

Those long fingers are still tracing hypnotic lines across her face. Eldarion's eyes soften. "You have ink on your nose," he whispers, still and solemn, and in that moment something, some little resistance inside her, gives way.

There is a crash from somewhere behind them, and they instinctively leap apart as Idril comes racing down the Library. ""What happened? Eleniel, I heard shouting, I – you're hurt!"

"Stelbin came," says Eldarion between gritted teeth. "He threatened Eleniel. I hit him."

Idril pushes Eleniel down into the nearest chair. "That's a nasty cut."

"It's fine." Eleniel squeezes her hand. "I'm fine. But I would like to go home, I think."

"You should move out, it's not safe…"

"No. Not until he makes me. I'm not running!" Eleniel looks back at Eldarion obstinately. "He'll not try anything tonight. I think you've scared him off for now." She clears her throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Thankyou. You seem to do an awful lot of rescuing me from awkward situations at the moment."

Elboron comes clattering down the stairs. "He's gone. Good riddance to bad rubbish. – We weren't a moment too soon, 'Dari, were we?"

"Did you get done whatever you were doing all day?" Idril asks.

"We've been with Adar," Eldarion answers her. "Come, Eleniel, I'll walk you home."

True to his word, he does walk her home, after they've all said their goodbyes and Eleniel has locked the doors. He very much on the alert the whole way, hand never straying far from his sword, eyes darting from side to side, and he leaves her at her door with strict instructions not to let anyone inside.

"And don't go out this evening," he adds seriously, a worried crease between his brows.

"I won't." Eleniel shoves the door open. "I – Eldarion, I really am sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am, you should not have to – Eleniel, did you just call me by my name?"

Eleniel starts, feeling herself blush and wishing she could sink through the floor. "Oh, no, I – I'm sorry, it just slipped out, I…"

His lips curve into the first real smile she has seen for days. "I like it. All the 'my lord's are rather wearying after a while. "

"It's most improper."

"Oh, I know impropriety, Lady Librarian, and this isn't it." Eldarion brings her hand to his lips, giving it a squeeze before he lets it go. "Good night, Eleniel. Be careful."

"I will if you will," she calls after him, and he raises a hand in acknowledgement. "Good night, my lo – Eldarion."

She watches him until he is out of sight, then kicks the door shut and leans on it, staring blindly down the dark hallway. Battleaxe winds around her ankles, purring.

"Eldarion," she says aloud to the empty house.

She's fallen in love with him, like a foolish weak-willed girl she's always feared herself to be, and she slides down the old door, puts her face in her hands, and cries.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

And now that I have an internet connection again, Chapter Twelve is half-written and should be up much, much sooner. Sorry, guys. Reviews are always great, however :)

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Nine days later, Eleniel receives a shock when she is awoken at the crack of dawn by the frantic voice of Idril calling her name.

"Eleniel!" A dull pounding echoes throughout the house; Idril must be banging on the front door. Eleniel rolls out of bed, hitting the floor in a tangle of sheets and nightclothes, and staggers over to the window.

"It's too early," she croaks, easing the window open and sticking her head out. "What do you – agh!" she drops the window; it lands with a resounding crash on her head and she retreats, cursing. The laughter of Idril and her retinue of soldiers floats upwards.

"I came early because I have news!" calls the Princess. Eleniel, hopping on one foot while she struggles into her dress and her stockings at the same time, rolls her eyes. "Really good news!"

Battleaxe, curled in a fluffy ball on the end of the bed, stares in the direction of the window as only a cat can. Eleniel throws her shawl over her shoulders and heads for the stairs, feet clattering on the old wood.

"What's so exciting?" she pants as she wrenches the front door open. "It's only just past dawn, Idril, what…"

Idril's cheeks are flushed with excitement; she bounds forwards and envelopes Eleniel in a hug, apparently oblivious to the admiring eyes of the soldiers. "I found the papers – Eleniel, I found it, written by Elendil himself!"

"Found what?" Eleniel grasps the Princess by the arms as the taller girl teeters dangerously on the slippery stones. "Idril, you – you can't mean…"

Idril grabs her by the hand and tows her over towards the waiting horses. "Come on. We have to go and see Ada."

Eleniel lets herself be pushed towards a horse. "You found proof that the Library is mine? But where?" She eyes the horse warily. "I can't ride, you know, Idril."

A burly soldier helps her to scramble inelegantly onto the horse's back; she clutches at both reins and saddle as they move off. Idril clatters along beside her, talking excitedly. "I was looking through that _Division of Lands_, last night, and I found Elendil's plan to divide up the City, and it says that whoever holds the title of Lord Archivist or Librarian to the City – that's you – shall also be recognised as sole owner of the grounds of the Library, and lots of land nearby, and a huge old house on Emerald Street. It's true, Eleniel, it is!"

Eleniel still cannot quite believe her ears; she grabs for the saddle as they round a corner. "So I – I own the Library, really, and the house? And – oh, if this works, Idril…"

"You'll be a real Lady," Idril crows. "Not that you weren't already, but now you can marry Eldarion –"

"What!"

" – and we can finish the Library, and Stelbin won't have a leg to stand on because you'll own all his land!"

They have reached the entrance to the Citadel; Eleniel slithers to the ground as Idril jumps lightly down beside her, dismissing the soldiers with a nod. She grabs Eleniel's hand.

"Come on, I told Ada we'd not be long – come _on_, Eleniel!"

Eleniel receives little more than a vague impression of wealth and splendour on her first visit inside the Palace; it all flashes past in a blur as they run through the maze of corridors, people stepping hurriedly aside to make way and staring after them. By the time they reach the big wooden doors the King's inner council chamber, both of them are out of breath and Eleniel is thoroughly lost.

"I brought her," Idril announces, bursting in through the door.

The King is seated at his desk; he looks up, and Eleniel is immediately horribly conscious of her uncombed hair and mismatched clothes. "My lady," he says, rising and coming round the desk to bow low over her hand. "I am sorry my daughter saw fit to wake you quite so early, but I think this may be of some importance."

"Of course," says Eleniel, flustered.

"Here," says Idril, picking up a book from the desk and passing it over. "Read this."

Eleniel peers at the faded ink. "'I, Elendil King' – etcetera – 'do hereby decree that whomsoever holds the post of Archivist or Librarian to the Library in this City shall be known as Lord or Lady of the Realm, and to this end do grant' – why, this is half of the Sixth Circle! And land in Arnor? But I…"

"Sit down, my lady," says the King, guiding her to a chair. "I must look into this, and confer with some of my advisors. The title, at least is yours."

"What about Stelbin?" Idril asks impatiently. "Ada, have you told him yet?"

"He is the complication. He must have deeds of his own, probably perfectly legitimate ones – the question is as to which claim takes preference. I am sorry, Lady Eleniel – I cannot do other than abide by the law in this."

There is a knock at the door, and at Aragorn's request to enter a boy appears around it. "Lord Stelbin is gone from the City," he announces. "He is expected to return later this morning."

"Thankyou, Eron." The King dismisses the boy and turns to his daughter. "Idril, why don't you take Eleniel to find some breakfast? I am certain that you dragged her up here without waiting. I shall send for you when Stelbin makes an appearance."

"If he does," mutters Eleniel.

"He will come," the King says sternly. "He would not dare do otherwise."

The Palace kitchens are large and warm, filled with an organised mass of people. Idril and Eleniel sit at the table in the middle of it all, Eleniel eating fresh bread and trying not to show that it is the first square meal she has had for two days, while Idril chatters to the kitchen staff. Her head is swimming with unasked questions.

"Idril," she says slowly, "if I don't own my house, Stelbin will turn me out now for sure."

"Then you'll come and live here," says Idril with a shrug. "In fact, I shouldn't wonder if you come officially under the protection of the King, being an unmarried noblewoman living alone – have you heard from your brother yet?"

The unease concerning Taeglin, never far away, resurfaces in force. "I – no. No, there has been no word."

Idril frowns. "You will surely hear soon."

Eleniel bites her lip.

There is a commotion on the stairs, and the same messenger from earlier races into the kitchen. "Message from the King, your highness, my lady, could you attend him immediately?"

"Is Stelbin back?" Eleniel and Idril ask almost simultaneously.

"Yes, my ladies." The boy hovers impatiently while they get up from the table. "The word is that he's in a foul mood."

Idril ruffles his hair as she passes. "Oh, I do hope so," she says gleefully.

As they approach the King's study, it is obvious from the interested crowd of people outside that something is going on; as they draw near to the door, Eleniel hears raised voices.

"…intolerable! I will not stand for it, Elessar!" Stelbin has his back to the door; he whirls as they enter. "This is a lie," he hisses.

"The evidence lies before you," Aragorn says steadily. The book lies open on his desk, pages flapping in the draught from the door. "I would ask that you produce your own deeds to the land, so that we may best determine…"

Stelbin's face is white with rage. "I'll be damned if I…"

"You will _control yourself_, my lord," snaps the King. "Lady Eleniel has kindly consented to submit to the rulings of the council and you would be advised to do likewise."

"Lady? That, Elessar, that is no lady, but a common whore!"

Aragorn sighs. "Lord Stelbin, I think my son has already had cause to reprimand you for speaking in this fashion. My own reprimand will be far harsher, I assure you. Go."

Stelbin's eyes are full of hate. "You would make me homeless," he says, visibly controlling himself. "Your majesty, your highness. My _lady_." He brushes past Idril and Eleniel and out of the door.

Aragorn sits down heavily in his chair. "I fear that we have not heard the end of his displeasure," he remarks, more to himself than to his daughter and her friend. "I am sorry that you had to bear witness to that." He frowns at his papers. "How goes the Library?"

"We have made progress. A lot of progress."

"Good. Keep on making it."

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The rest of the morning seems to pass in a sort of blur. Eldarion and Elboron turn up at midday with an enormous pile of parchment and scores of ink-bottles, and both congratulate Eleniel on the news.

"Though of course, we never doubted it," says Elboron airily, flicking his duster across the spines of a row of leather-bound books. "Fate wouldn't ever play quite such a hard hand as to have Stelbin win this little game."

"He might yet find his deeds to the land," protests Eleniel.

Elboron laughs. "If he does, then he has more foresight than I give him credit for. None of the old nobility can prove they own their land, it's just an accepted fact that – 'Darion, are you all right?"

Eldarion, just in front of Eleniel, is standing stock-still with an odd expression on his face. "I thought I heard something."

Eleniel feels a shiver run down her spine. "What kind of something?"

"I'm not sure." Eldarion listens for a moment longer, then shrugs. "It was probably nothing. Sorry."

"I am hungry," Idril announces from behind them. "Shall we break for lunch? I think we might go somewhere expensive and fashionable, brother, what say you?"

"In honour of the occasion, of course!" Eldarion smiles at Eleniel. "Come, Lady Librarian, let us introduce you into high society."

"High society?" Eleniel eyes him with misgiving. "They would throw me out of the door, I rather think."

Idril seizes her arm with a wicked grin. "'Dari, Elboron, we'll meet you in that little place on Telerin Street. Eleniel, my dear, I am going to give you some proper clothes."

"I can't do that!" Eleniel protests as she is towed in the direction of the passage to the palace. "Idril, I'll look silly, I'll look like a servant dressing up in her mistress's gowns!"

"You won't," says Idril impatiently. "You will look beautiful. It'll give Eldarion just the shock he needs to do what he ought. Come _on_, Eleniel!"

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Idril, it transpires, has a wardrobe that seems as big as Eleniel's entire house, and more gowns than she could ever hope to wear. Eleniel, standing dazedly in the middle of the Princess's bedroom while a veritable army of maids fuss around her, tells her so.

"People keep giving me dresses," says Idril with a sigh. "Usually visiting dignitaries. The trouble is that they all wish to flatter me, so the waistlines are horrifically small." She regards Eleniel critically. "Anna, I think that green affair - the one from Harad, the silk one."

Eleniel allows herself to be manoeuvred into position as seemingly yards of material descend upon her. "I'm going to feel awfully overdressed," she protests, voice muffled by the silk.

"Nonsense," Idril says briskly. "You will – oh, Eleniel, you look lovely!"

"Do I?" says Eleniel dubiously. A maid swipes at her head with a hairbrush and she ducks instinctively. Hands tweak the cloth into position around her, then turn her so that she faces the large mirror.

"See?" Idril says smugly, coming up behind her.

Eleniel stares, unable to think of a comeback. The green silk falls in graceful folds, making the most of her height and accentuating what figure she has. As she watches, a maid pushes a jewelled comb into her hair; she reaches up and touches it, awed. The woman in the mirror is Eleniel, but not Eleniel; an elegant lady of fashion gazes back at her, not a girl in her mother's woollen cast-offs. "Idril, I – thank you," she whispers.

"Stand up straighter," Idril tells her, somewhat ruining the illusion by grabbing at her shoulders and forcing them back. "Better. You will do very well. Anna, my cloak, and my spare for Lady Eleniel."

Eleniel follows Idril out through the Palace, still in a sort of daze. She is conscious of the many admiring glances that she receives, and is unsure whether to attribute them to the dress or to her companion; she keeps her gaze firmly on the floor, and only really relaxes when they leave the Citadel.

"I refuse to take a guard," Idril says under her breath as they walk hurriedly past the gate. "It's only a short walk, just around the corner here – oh, I cannot wait to see 'Dari's face!"

"Idril," says Eleniel, trotting to keep up; the unfamiliar shoes are slightly uncomfortable. "Idril, about – about Eldarion, please, please don't…"

Idril gives her a wide-eyed look of innocence. "Don't _what_, Lady Librarian?"

A few minutes later, with a low bow, the doorman announces, "Her Royal Highness Princess Idril, and her companion Lady Eleniel , City Archivist." He shoots them a puzzled glance, but Idril sweeps past him with a brilliant smile and Eleniel, caught up in her wake, follows helplessly.

"Brother," she says primly as they approach the raised table in the corner, "My lord Elboron, may I present Lady Eleniel?"

Both men start from their chairs. Elboron laughs delightedly. "Congratulations, my lady," he says, raising his glass. "A true transformation."

Eldarion looks rather like a startled deer; he blinks several times before saying, "Eleniel, I – you – you look…" he swallows hard, and meets her eyes, seemingly with an effort. "You look…"

"Oh, stop stammering, 'Darion," says Idril, smacking him lightly on the head.

The lunch is pleasant, if slightly nerve-wracking; Eleniel is horribly conscious of the many curious eyes upon her, and even more aware of Eldarion, who appears distracted to the point of confusion. He seems unable to meet her eyes, and drops his fork so many times that she begins to seriously wonder if he is well.

Towards the end of their meal, the doors open once more and the doorman calls out over the quiet hum of conversation, "Lady Celeglin of Lebennin and Lord Stelbin."

This time it is Eleniel's turn to drop her fork; she curses and ducks under the table to retrieve it as her three companions swivel to glare at the doorway. "How dare they," says Idril furiously under her breath.

"We should get back to work soon anyway," says Eleniel hurriedly, emerging from under the table. "If we just leave…"

"I don't see why we should," Idril starts, but Eldarion cuts across her.

"No, Eleniel is right. There is no reason why we should cause a scene." He smiles at Eleniel, the first time he has done so all through the meal, and she could swear he blushes. "We still have work to do, after all."

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"We're so close to finishing," Eleniel murmurs, standing in the middle of the foyer, apparently oblivious to all around her. Eldarion watches her out of the corner of his eye, fiddling with the untidy pile of books on the desk. "We have – how many days? Four?"

"We'll manage it," says Idril confidently.

Eldarion looks up at the high vaulted ceiling. Dust-motes swirl in the sunlight, dancing prisms of light that blur the outlines of the old stone. His head throbs dully, a reminder that he hasn't slept properly for weeks. "Eleniel, have you paid any thought to where you will live now?"

Eleniel frowns. "Why should I live anywhere – oh. Oh, I see." She taps her lips with a finger. "If I own the house on Emerald Street, then that would be ideal; if not then…"

"Where did you leave that book, Idril?" Eldarion turns to the desk. "Surely it will tell us more – it would be useful if Eleniel owned some land that Stelbin does _not_."

"It's there on the desk." Idril's skirts swish on the floor as she moves over. "It's – why, it's gone!"

Eleniel pales. "Gone? It can't be gone, it…"

"Someone's stolen it!" gasps the Princess excitedly.

There is a commotion on the stairs. "Message for Eleniel daughter of Serion!" comes a distant yell.

Eleniel visibly pulls herself together. "Down here," she calls, and looks at Eldarion. There is a fierce glint in her eyes. "I'd wager my life that Stelbin has stolen that book."

"Either that or Idril has lost it – unlikely, sister, I know," Eldarion adds hurriedly as the Princess glares at him. "We will find it again."

"Eleniel daughter of – my lady, my lords." A man dressed in dirty armour clatters down into the foyer and bows low.

"Is something wrong?" Eleniel asks, stepping forward. "If you're from Stelbin, then you may tell him from me that…"

"No, lady, I m not from Stelbin," the man interrupts, eyeing Eleniel appreciatively. Eldarion fights the urge to hit him. "I bring news from the North."

The change in Eleniel's demeanour is startling; her face drains of all colour as she darts forward and seizes the man by his arms. "The North? The army?"

"A letter, lady, the wains were mixed the other day and…" the soldier trails off as Eleniel snatches at the crumpled paper and tears it open, her hands shaking. "Lady, I fear that…"

Eldarion starts forward, a horrible sense of foreboding rising in him. "Eleniel? Eleniel…"

Her eyes dart across the paper, then still. Like a statue, she stands there with the scrap of paper clutched in her hand.

"Eleniel, what is it?" Idril says anxiously. "Is it good news or bad? Is it…"

"Dead," says Eleniel hollowly, and turns away. "Dead." Her voice floats back to them as she walks away down the library, dwarfed against the massive structure, steps faltering but quickening.

"Valar, no," breathes Eldarion, and without a second thought he runs after her. "Eleniel!" She stops at his shout but does not turn, trembling, eyes filled with tears. "Eleniel…" he catches up with her and touches her on the arm, and she turns, and suddenly crumples against him in hysterical sobs. Eldarion holds her and murmurs meaningless things, whole being centred on the girl in his arms who is not as strong as she would like the world to think, dimly aware of Idril's shocked outburst and Elboron's questions. None of them matter at the moment. Eleniel's heartbroken sobs strike him like blows, and he feels that horrible frustration, wants to take revenge, do _something_, because, nothing, nothing should be able to do this to the woman he loves.

"He – he's _dead_, he, I knew it was true but I didn't want, I couldn't believe it, oh, it's not fair, it's _not fair_…"

"It's never fair. It's never, ever fair." Eldarion smoothes her hair helplessly. "War is the most unfair thing in the world."

Idril is reading from the letter, which Eleniel has dropped on the floor; she hands it to Eldarion in silence. He takes it with his free hand; the letter is terse and to the point.

_It is our deepest sorrow to inform you that your brother Taeglin son of Serion died in action on the fifth day of this month. It is not possible to transport the body for a funeral at this time. Be assured that all arrangements have been taken care of and monetary affairs will be set to rights as soon as…_

Eldarion does not bother to read any more. "I'm sorry," he whispers into Eleniel's hair. "I'm so sorry."

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It takes some time before Eleniel's tears have subsided enough for her to speak. Elboron, in the meantime, volunteers to take the news to the Palace, and Idril hangs around relatively unobtrusively in the background; when Elboron returns, Eleniel is sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, looking tired and drained, her eyes red and swollen. She seems a far cry from the enchanting creature of the morning.

"Bad news, I fear," says Elboron in a low voice to Eldarion, who comes to meet him at the door. "Stelbin, it seems, has produced his own deeds to that land, and has decided that Eleniel's been a disturbance long enough."

"What do you mean?"

"He's evicting her," says Elboron bluntly. "She can't go home, because she doesn't have a home."

"The library, what about the library?" Eldarion feels a lump forming in the pit of his stomach. "It would kill her to lose now, 'Boron, it…"

"The king has bought us more time. He's told Stelbin that the original deal still holds – as long as we finish the Library, he's not to knock it down." Elboron rubs a hand over his face, and lowers his voice even further. "How go the plans for the – incident – planned for the ball?"

"We are no nearer to an arrest," Eldarion answers, his voice equally quiet. "We have spies everywhere, but so does the enemy. They know we suspect something, but how far it goes – I am beginning to think that making an arrest on the night is the only solution."

"The Queen knows?" Eldarion nods. "And Eleniel, does she know?"

"She – knows there is danger." Eldarion sighs. "Damn this whole affair, I – I can't tell her. It's too dangerous. The spymasters tell me that we would risk losing our upper hand."

"Upper hand." Elboron snorts softly.

"Yes." Eldarion glances behind him. "It is Stelbin. It must be."

"Five days." Elboron exhales softly. "It's a waiting-game."

"Eldarion?" Eleniel has come up behind them unnoticed. "I – I think I'll go home and…"

"Eleniel, I'm so sorry. You can't," says Eldarion heavily. "It's – it's bad news, I'm afraid, it – Stelbin has found his own deeds to the land. They take precedence."

Eleniel stares at him. "I – I have no home?"

"We sent men down there," Elboron breaks in, exchanging an uneasy glance with Eldarion. "They are moving your belongings into the Palace."

"I have no home," Eleniel repeats, and drops to the floor in a dead faint.

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In a room, far below the Library in the dark secret places of the City, a man says softly, "I feel we are winning, my lady."

"Winning? Because you've removed a girl from her home?" The woman smiles, red lips lustrous in the candlelight. "Surely you rejoice prematurely, my lord."

"There will be no more – interruptions." The man leans back, regarding her complacently. "Her brother is dead. She has lost her home. All she is left with is a worthless title. The Prince is distracted…"

"He looks tired," she remarks.

"He is tired. Too tired to operate with his usual – style." The man chuckles. "He thinks he will arrest an assassin on the night."

"What a surprise he will have," purrs the woman, "when the knife slides into his heart and…"

"_Hush_." A glare. "Do not say it aloud too many times, my lady, or we put ourselves at risk even more."

"Risk. Pah." She favours him with a brilliant smile. "In three days' time the Prince will be dead, along with his cursed mother. Gondor _will be_ ours."

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The day rolls on towards night.

In the Palace, Eleniel lies asleep in a bed that seems too large, her cat curled under her chin and a scrap of paper clutched in her hand. Her dreams are confused, full of blood and unseen battles and the face of her lost brother, but at the edges lurks a figure cloaked in black, a stiletto blade held loose in his hand.

Eldarion sleeps in a hard chair with one hand on his dagger, tense even when at rest, the lines of his face deepening in the flickering firelight. He dreams of a falling city, of a white tower that crumbles and of foes that dance just out of reach, and he dreams of Celeglin's glittering smile and a white hand beckoning him to destruction.

Idril sleeps in restless stages, unable to stop the hands that reach for her, drowning in seas of hate-fuelled whispers.

Elboron dreams that he fights for the West, and dreams of Numenor.

The King sleeps at his desk, plotters and assassins weaving in and out of his dreams, the rough hands of barbarians snatching at his beloved city, and elven music that plays a haunting frenzied warning.

The Queen does not sleep. She stands in the moonlight and whispers a hymn to Elbereth, and listens to the night.

The City whispers a restless warning.

_Beware_.


End file.
